Chance Encounters
by Feagalad
Summary: It was just a random meeting and he was just another skinny student, but you know what they say: 'Everything happens for a reason.' Little did Martha Hudson know that her chance encounter with Sherlock Holmes would change her life forever!
1. Library Day

**Disclaimer: **No ownership + no profit = no lawsuit, please?

* * *

"…and they are due on the 30th, love." She put the card into the file and handed the book over to the teen who mumbled out a garbled sentence that might have been 'thanks' before shuffling out of the library. Honestly – maybe all of those novels young people were reading today really did ruin them. Would it kill someone to be polite?

Martha Losbourne had worked in this library for nearly four years now – long enough to know that you could expect to meet all types. There were the regulars; adults and young people who came to the sacred quiet of the library to escape from the whirlwind of everyday life. These were usually the polite ones who made quiet conversation and handled the books and resources with care. Then there were the others who only darkened the door of the library whenever their own personal electronic devices had malfunctioned and they needed a computer to make a quick Wikipedia-based essay draft. The latter were usually the most difficult to deal with as they usually had little respect for those around them (either not caring or being too personally 'embarrassed' to make more of an effort). Of course things were usually livelier in the Children's Section – with programmes and activities for the little tykes – but Martha was strictly bound to the adult section and she loved the peace and quiet of a lazy Tuesday afternoon where the only sounds were the turning of pages and soft murmurs of the regulars.

This particular Tuesday was going to be extra special. Though Martha usually clung to the tranquillity of her job with its books and files as long as she could, today she could scarcely wait for the end of her shift. Thomas had promised to drop by and take her out for coffee. It would be nice to go out in pleasant company for a change, rather than going home to toast and tea and crap telly all by her lonesome.

"Here is my card, Ma'am." Martha was startled from her reverie when a deep, aristocratic voice accompanied three thick volumes on forensic chemistry being dropped on her desk. She looked up and met the oddest pair of green-blue eyes that looked at her piercingly.

Martha smiled warmly and started the checking out process, noting that he had several other books and pamphlets tucked under his arm. "Planning on becoming a police officer then?"

His upper lip curled into a sneer. "Certainly not."

"A scientist?" Martha was not deterred by his apparent foul mood. Today was going to be splendid and no pale, skinny university student was going to ruin it for her – not even with awkward silence whilst she tried to get the computer to cooperate with her. "So what are you studying?"

"Bio-chemistry with a focus on pathology." His tone was one of longsuffering annoyance and Martha got the feeling that Sherlock Holmes (as his library card named him) was not much of a people person. Still – that was no cause for him to be rude!

"How fascinating!" She said cheerfully, scanning his account and handing back the card. "You have five books that are due in two days, Sherlock – " He looked slightly surprised when she said his name and then for some odd reason directed his annoyance inward " – They have already been renewed more than is the limit, so make sure you return them by the deadline." She scanned an encyclopaedia of poisons with interest. "So you would be in your first year of uni?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Third, actually." He now sounded a bit smug and Martha hid a smile: they were all alike – men and their egos! "Graduated from school a bit early and entered the programme soon thereafter."

"You must be a real smart one, then." Martha didn't miss the way he puffed up his thin chest a bit at her compliment.

"Well I should expect so, yes." Suddenly his voice had taken on a decidedly warmer, though still distant, quality. It was clear that he was a sucker for flattery, although Martha also caught a bit of surprise to him that suggested he didn't hear sincere compliments all that often. Probably his superior and abrasive persona (he was definitely no charmer, despite his looks) put people off.

She checked out the last book and handed it over to him. "You ought to get yourself a backpack or something, Sherlock." She said, clicking for the computer to print the receipt. "Are you certain you can carry all of those back to your lodgings?"

"I will be fine." He manoeuvred the teetering stack into his arms, miraculously managing to hang on to all of them while still drumming his fingers impatiently as his rather long receipt and return-reminder printed off.

"Martha, dear, I've been waiting for the past ten minutes!" Thomas Hudson strode into the room and came around the counter, giving her a friendly peck on the cheek. "I thought we were going for coffee."

Sherlock's eyes flickered up and down the man's form and his expression stilled, becoming icy. Martha saw all of this from the corner of her eye as she smiled at her boyfriend. "Now you know I said I'd be working a few minutes late today, Thomas." She gave the stubborn printer a light slap. "I just have to take care of young Sherlock here and then we can be off."

"Ah – Sherlock!" Thomas offered his hand with a friendly smile. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Mr. Holmes, please." Sherlock's voice was flat and cold. He made no move to return Thomas' handshake and after a few awkward moments, the older man drew back and spoke with forced joviality. "So are you one of Martha's 'regulars'?"

"Hardly."

"Oh I see – you're one of those young blokes that prefers surfing the 'net to the smell of a good book, eh?"

"Sometimes."

The tension was palpable. Martha took one despairing look at the printer and tore the paper free. So what if the 'Have A Nice Day' got smudged? She doubted anyone actually read it. "Thomas – why don't you go and wait outside for me? I'll just get Sherlock here all set and then I'll be right out."

"All right then, dear." Thomas patted her on the shoulder and, with one last odd look in Sherlock's direction, made for the door.

"Give me the receipt, please." Sherlock's voice was oddly quiet and stilted – his face an expressionless mask that made Martha uneasy. She didn't hand over the paper right away.

"Look, Sherlock, I understand that maybe you don't like interacting with others very often – and that's fine. But when you're in my section of the library and talking with _my_ fiancé the least you could do is to show some common courtesy."

"He is not your fiancé." Sherlock said, sharp eyes drilling into her. "He has never proposed nor are you living together. There is no ring on your finger and I cannot see any mark of where one should be."

"Fine – my boyfriend then." She had thought that maybe the more proprietary and mature term would speak to his snobbish nature and…how _did_ he see through her little white lie? "I still have to ask that you use the manners I'm sure someone had to have mentioned to you at some point in your life. What is your problem with him anyways?"

Swift as lightning he snatched the receipt and turned to leave. "That is none of your concern."

"Since it involves me, I think it does. I like you, Sherlock – " She tried not to notice his brief shocked blink and disbelieving scoff at that statement, " – yes I really do and I don't want to have this hanging over our heads. So what is the issue?"

"You trust far too easily." Sherlock said, after he mumbled something about her 'asking for it'. "If you know what's good for you, you should leave him."

Martha blinked. "And what does that mean?"

"It means that you need to get out while you still can – before he proposes to you, if he's ever actually planning to, that is."

"Why?"

"He's using you." The words were sharp arrows, burying themselves in her heart as Sherlock went on relentlessly, and she regretted opening this Pandora's Box. "I don't know why or for what purpose (didn't get a close enough look) but he definitely doesn't have anything in mind other than himself."

Surely it couldn't be true! It couldn't! Why should she believe the word of this strange, probably hungover student whom she had only seen a few times before in her life and only spoken to today? What did he know beyond all of the toxins on the Periodic Table? If a handsome man like Thomas was willing to even consider her at her age (nearing forty) then he couldn't be all bad, right? "You're wrong." She said to Sherlock, clutching the edge of the counter in anger and desperation. "I don't know what you're playing at – but you're wrong. Thomas is a good man."

Sherlock snorted derisively. "With all of those tells? Please. The skin of a habitual drinker, the shirt of the clinically paranoid, and the jaw of a womaniser are all prevalent. I think you should save yourself the trouble and get out while you still can. Good day!" He turned sharply on his heel and stalked out of the door, vanishing quickly from sight.

Martha collected her things and surrendered the desk to a co-worker in a daze. How had this day gone from something magical and pleasant to this? Why had she pressed the matter? It wasn't as if Sherlock really knew Thomas. Their relationship was none of his business, anyways (even if it was rather clever the way he had realised all of those facts just by looking at them). If she ever saw him again she would let one of the other librarians deal with him, as she was quite certain he never wanted to hear her voice again. The feeling was entirely mutual…


	2. Honeymoon Blues

.

* * *

That afternoon coffee turned out to be better than Martha had ever anticipated, even with the clouds of the earlier storm hanging over her, for no sooner was she ensconced in the alcove and sipping her vanilla latte than Thomas reached into his pocket and retrieved a velvet-lined box.

Overjoyed, Martha quickly accepted his proposal (so _there_, Sherlock Holmes!) and in the glow of her thoughts all consideration of Sherlock's damning words was pushed back to the darkest recesses of her mind. Everything was _perfect!_ She wore her mother's lace wedding dress for the ceremony and her brother-in-law, Steve, graciously walked her down the aisle in proxy of her dead father. Martha gleefully gave up her flat, relishing the thought of no longer having to carry groceries up the icy stairs or remembering the pay the rent at the end of every month. The timing was perfect too, because she was let go from her beloved library only weeks before the wedding. But that was okay – she had Thomas now and was to become a wife. She said her vows in a kind of rapturous dream and kissed Thomas with all of the fervour that promised better things to come. And with that Martha Losbourne became Martha Hudson – stepping onto the plane to Majorca alongside her new husband with not one regret in her heart.

* * *

Martha woke the next morning and just lay there for a moment with a lazy smile, letting the warm glow settle into her skin before she rolled over and swept a fond eye over her sleeping husband…_her_ husband! Before she met Thomas Martha had all but given up hope of ever saying those words truthfully. She had been resigned to becoming the personification of the 'always a bridesmaid, never a bride' saying as she watched all of her friends and family get married and start families while she remained depressingly single and unwed. It had been lonely to be left behind – but then she met Thomas. Her wonderful, jumpy, hot-tempered Thomas who always had a smile for her and a kiss and didn't mind that she was no longer a young woman or that there were lines forming on her face. Perhaps it was because he wasn't exactly a spring chicken himself – but whatever the reason, Martha thanked heaven that she had found him.

_** I was made for lovin' you, baby, you were made for lovin' me!** _

Thomas' eyes snapped open with a panicked expression and he leapt out of bed, fumbling desperately for his ringing mobile phone. Glancing at the caller ID, his expression blanked and he stalked swiftly into the bathroom, kicking the door closed irritably. "What?" Martha heard him snap as he presumably answered the phone.

Somewhat disappointed at having her slow, pleasant morning interrupted, she climbed out of bed and went in search of some nightclothes and a dressing gown – just in case Thomas' unexpected phone call went on for a while. Settling back into bed with one of the tourist brochures the hotel provided, Martha tried not to listen in to the conversation going on in the bathroom…but she couldn't help it. The fact that she had to strain to make out the words through the wall only made her senses hone in all the more and at last she flung the reading aside and gave up all pretences of discretion. After all, it wasn't as if Thomas would _mind._

"Listen – I really don't have time for this right now." Thomas' voice hissed from the bathroom. She could picture it now from similar calls he had made in the past – one hand would be clenched over the phone and the other would be raking through his hair in the adorable nervous tick he fell into from time to time. (Did she really just use the world 'adorable'? Goodness – this honeymoon business must be turning her into a silly lovesick girl!) Thomas growled in frustration. "No I really mean it…yeah…yeah, I guess." He stopped and listened for a while before butting in again. "Look – just give me a week or so, okay? I'll call you back whenever I get back – but don't call me!" Another pause and then, "Fine…fine; that sounds good, Shells. Talk later – bye."

Martha rolled over in bed and watched her groom as he stalked out of the bathroom, tension clearly visible in every one of his lines as he deposited his phone into his suitcase. "C'mere, you." She said, patting the bedclothes beside her, which he sank into gratefully. "What's wrong, dear?" She started a massage of his tight shoulders tenderly. He was tense and coiled as a spring! That wasn't healthy.

"Nothing, nothing – it's just that damn phone call." Thomas leaned back into her touch with a grunt. "I _told_ her not to bother me this week. Ow!" Martha's fingers probed at a particularly stubborn knot and he clenched his jaw as she worked it out.

_"…and the jaw of a womaniser."_ Suddenly and unbidden the supercilious voice of Sherlock Holmes lanced through her mind and Martha felt a cold, terrible suspicion take its ugly root in her middle. Surely not! They were only just beginning their life together – she was probably just overreacting. Still it would probably be best for her to be certain, just so that she wouldn't let this unsettled reason eat at her until she fretted away their happy time for no reason.

"I didn't know you had a sister, Thomas. Was she at the wedding?"

Instantly he stiffed and pulled away from her, face further closing off – this time against _her_. That niggling coil of dread strengthened.

"Thomas – what is it? What did I say?"

After peering intently at her (and yet somehow not meeting her eyes) for a moment or two, his face relaxed into a smile. "It's not you, Martha." He said, reaching for her hand comfortingly. "I've just had a stressful morning." He chuckled and leaned in to press a kiss against her neck. "And after last night…I could have done without the rude wake-up call."

"So who is Shells?" She hated to bring it up again, really she did, but she felt she had to be sure. It wouldn't do for them to go into this with anything unpleasant between them, after all.

"Just one of my co-workers." Thomas laced his fingers through hers and smiled ruefully. "There's a big deal on at work – came up rather unexpectedly – but I _told_ them that I was not available for anything this week. Shells is, well she's a bit flighty. I reminded her, though, so I'm sure there will be no further interruptions."

Reassured by this (What did Sherlock know, anyway?) Martha reached up and traced that 'womaniser's' jaw. "Shall I show you how you can make it up to me, then?"

* * *

That was not the last interruption, though. Some four days later Thomas was using the loo so they could go out when a text came in to the mobile that he had left unattended for the first time since co-worker 'Shells' had called. Annoyed by the quacking ringtone, Martha walked over from where she had been tying her sandals to check the message.

_Miss ya lots, babe!_

_Txt me bk, K?_

_xxx Julie_

She _really_ hoped that this person just had the wrong number and was about to reply to the juvenile message when Thomas came charging out of the bathroom and snatched the phone from her hands. "What is it? What came through?" He snapped it shut madly which was rather odd, given how desperate he seemed to be to know the contents of the message.

She saw the panicked look in his eyes and melted. It wasn't his fault that they had had such a string of bad luck. He didn't ask Shells to be forgetful or for teens to invent that fad of prank texting (or whatever they called it). How he must be worrying about what she was thinking of him! "Just some girl texting her boyfriend." Martha assured her husband with a smile. He opened the phone again and scanned the message so worriedly that Martha felt she had to say something comforting. "Kids these days, right? She probably just made a mistake when punching in the number."

Thomas gave a lopsided grin. "Yeah – you're probably right. I'm just glad it wasn't anything super private." He punched a few buttons and stuffed the offending item into his pocket. "What say you, Mrs. Hudson – shall we try out that new Breakfast Shoppe across the way?" He offered his arm with a flourish.

"Oh, Mr. Hudson, we certainly shall."

* * *

The week passed in a whirlwind of delicious meals, exciting day trips, and sunset walks on the beach. It was like a wonderful dream come true – a fairytale that she was living. And there were no more phone calls or texts to disturb their little utopia. Martha couldn't have been happier.

Except…despite all of her efforts to squelch it that little tiny seed of doubt continued to stubbornly survive. It would disappear for a time (usually whenever Thomas directed his full attention at her and she felt herself drowning in the romance of it all) but during the quiet times it would whisper in a voice that sounded uncannily like that skinny student that she was looking at it all wrong. She tried to ignore it. She didn't want to think the worse of her groom, nor did she want to create a problem that didn't exist. Why was she so paranoid all of a sudden?

Martha lay in bed beside the sleeping Thomas, quietly contemplating all of these things. It was Friday. Tomorrow they would be boarding the plane to return to England and Thomas' Baker Street home. Martha really felt that she should lay these thoughts to rest now before she carried them back with her and allowed them to poison her chances of a happy home. Rolling over and determining that Thomas really was asleep, she sat up and switched on her lamp – relieved and pleased whenever he only huffed and rolled over in his slumber. Time to dispel the ghost of Sherlock Holmes and his probably meaningless observations!

Carefully reaching over Thomas' sleeping form, Martha retrieved his mobile from the bedside table and flipped it open. The harsh blue light seared her eyes and she blinked for a couple of minutes until the dilation had acclimatised in her eyes. Then it was just a matter of trying to find his message inbox, which took several minutes of pressing buttons, and trying to navigate the unnecessarily complicated menu. But at last she found the correct stop and, taking a deep breath, started to read through the messages.

The first dozen or so weren't too bad. There was a message from 'Cousin Al' and a few notices from his workplace – but nothing too incriminating. But then came the first of the messages from Shells – thanking him for the drinks last night and telling him that he 'was amazing, they should def. do that again'. That was a bit odd, true, but maybe she was just talking about Scrabble. _"You're blind, Martha."_ Her inner cynic taunted her. _"You're seeing only what you want to see."_ She told it fiercely to shut up and went on reading.

And it only got worse. With each new text she opened (some dated _after_ they were engaged) she seemed to see more and more evidence to suggest that she was not the only love of Thomas' life – or even the primary one. She felt cold and sick, wanting nothing more than to run as far away as possible while huddling down under the covers and never coming out again. This couldn't be happening – it just couldn't! They were newly married; they were in love. How could he do this to her? Oh god, she must look like such a fool! Was this pain she felt her heart breaking?

The lighted text was blurring in front of her eyes now as she read a couple of extremely explicit texts from a woman in the states that were dated three weeks ago. Martha felt betrayed. Knowing that he hadn't waited for her and their wedding as she had him, could she ever trust him again? Could she believe that he was hers now? Silly, _old_ Martha?

Martha swiped angrily at her eyes and as she did so, she caught a glimpse of Thomas' face out of the corner of her gaze. Wait – his face? Hadn't he just been facing away from her?

Thomas Hudson blinked groggily up at her, still half asleep and not comprehending anything. "What are you doing, Martha?" In the dim light he didn't seem to notice the tears on her face (or maybe he was just that uncaring).

"I – uh." She blinked back the tears and hurriedly clicked the phone shut. Unfortunately the sound made Thomas hone in on the mobile. Immediately a black scowl painted his face and he sat up with a jerk.

"What are you doing?"

Even through her tumultuous emotions, Martha knew that admitting she had snooped into his personal items would not be a good way to deal with this, so she plastered a trembly smile on her face and said. "Nothing, dear. I just couldn't sleep so I thought I'd hijack your phone and maybe see if I could figure out how to connect to the Internet. I would have used the laptop, but I didn't want to get out of the warm bed." She felt a stab of guilt for the lie, but ruthlessly shoved it down.

Clearly Thomas, while he might have bought the explanation, knew that that was not all there was to it. His eyes were narrowed and he looked quite tense. "You were reading my text messages, weren't you?"

She wasn't sure but she thought she detected a hint of anger in his voice. Well she was certainly feeling angry! If he hadn't lied to her for all of these months she wouldn't have had to go snooping! "Yes I did."


	3. Forgive But Never Forget

.

* * *

Thomas leaped out of bed and began pacing, angrily tearing at his hair. "You had no right!" He snarled, glaring at her and she felt the anger tear through her.

"Didn't I? I am your wife!"

"That doesn't give you the right to go behind my back and meddle in my affairs."

"I wouldn't call it that." Martha too got to her feet, feeling that she would be arguing from a disadvantage if she remained seated in bed.

"Then why were you snooping through my things?" Thomas' voice was low and controlled; dangerous even.

"Why were you seeing at least four different girlfriends throughout different points of our engagement?" Martha spat back, channelling her anger into her words. The devastation had been roughly shoved from her heart by a hot, molten tide of wrath. It would return in time, Martha was sure, but right now she felt only betrayed anger. "I trusted you! I waited for you and gave you everything. How _dare_ you cheat on me like that?"

_"How much did you read?"_ Thomas thundered, clenching his fists – all pretence of not disturbing the other guests falling away as that quick temper she had so admired as high spirits in the past boiled over. But Martha wasn't cowed.

"I _saw_ all of those messages 'Shells' sent you!"

Thomas sighed and passed a hand over his face. "I didn't want you to have to see those." He said wearily, visibly reigning in his temper. "Look, Martha, the truth is that I did have a couple of girlfriends before I met you. There's no crime in that. What I currently have is a few exes (Shelly in particular) who just can't seem to grasp the concept of 'ex'."

"Then why did you try to hide them from me?" Martha sniffed as the strength her anger had lent began to ebb. She knew that she looked rather pathetic and was probably giving him the upper hand, but at this point she couldn't help it. This had been a difficult night.

"I had hoped that if I ignored them they would give up." Thomas gave her a tired, bland smile. "You know me – I can't stand confrontations. Maybe I should have told you; I just didn't want to have something like this happen." He turned the phone off and shoved it into his duffle bag. "C'mon, Martha, I'm knackered. Let's go back to bed."

Thomas climbed back into the bed and rolled over so that his back was squarely to her, shutting off the light with a sharp click. Martha didn't immediately follow, but instead went into the bathroom and splashed some cool water on her face to wash away the salty tear tracks and give her time to regain her composure. She was aware that she had lost something very precious tonight; her trust in her husband was forever going to be besmirched by this midnight argument. Oh she might forgive Thomas – and Martha was certain that, given time, she could – but never again could she place the blind faith in him and his motivations that a husband and wife should be able to share. Ever after now she would be second-guessing herself and him – wondering about those long hours at the office and mistrusting the conference trips.

She stared at her blotchy, washed-out reflection in the mirror – noting the way that the harsh light of the bathroom emphasised every blemish and line on her face and berating herself for ever thinking that a Prince Charming would come for her. She had been so desperate and so foolish that she had been blind to all of his faults. Even if Thomas had been telling the truth (and Martha had her doubts, given the way he hadn't replied until _after_ she revealed that she had only read the inbox) he had still lied to her about Shells. That hurt – it really did. This realisation was like a lance of ice straight to the heart.

* * *

The next morning they packed and headed to the airport in uncomfortable silence. Thomas seemed determined to ignore the issue and Martha wasn't about to bring it up again – so they spoke little and avoided each other's gazes carefully.

All of this careful tiptoeing across eggshells was so, _so_ different from the happy days of yore. Martha half wished that she had never overheard that phone call or read those texts. Would she be happier if she had remained in the dark? Certainly her relationship with her husband would still be wonderful and exciting, untainted by the ugly spectre of suspicion, so perhaps in this situation it would have been better for her to remain blissfully ignorant. She wasn't even married a week and already things were crumbling around her. Thomas was cold and distant, her heart was in tatters, and she felt deep remorse for not paying better attention to the warnings of a certain genius student. Marry in haste, repent in leisure – that was what her father always used to say and that was what Martha saw in her future.

They returned home and settled into Baker Street. Every day Martha awoke while Thomas was shaving in the bathroom and prepared breakfast, which they ate in polite silence while Thomas, read yesterday's newspaper. Then they would exchange the necessary pleasantries and Thomas would give her a quick peck on the cheek before dashing out the door to hail a cab. Martha would then turn on the radio (she _so_ hated the silence of an empty house) and start washing the dishes. And that was how she spent her days – housework and telly. Occasionally her sister, Kathy, would call and chat for a while or she would venture out to the shops – but this never-ending pattern became her life. At exactly 4:45 Thomas would return home and shrug off his jacket. Martha would pretend not to notice the dyed red hairs clinging to the collar (she had made her bed, as her father always said, so she had to lie in it) and would hang it in the wardrobe. Then they would eat supper and maybe watch some more telly before Thomas would yawn and retire to bed. That was her life. That was how she learned to live.

She did her best to keep her head up and be cheerful. She tried to ignore the red hairs (most definitely belonging to 'Shells', judging by the business woman's appearance at the company party Thomas had hosted). She tried to keep the house spick, span, and tidy – religiously doing her washing on Fridays and doing the shopping every Monday. That was something she could control, so she did it gladly even though the feeling was growing on her that Thomas only kept her around (or had married her in the first place) to gain a housekeeper.

It was one such Monday that she met up with a certain lanky genius again. She had been enjoying the feeling of being out of the house and walking along cheerfully with her basket over her arm when she rounded the corner and nearly ran smack into a tall figure who had been hunched over the talcum powder in an effort to compare sales.

"Sorry – I'm so sorry!" She said, back-peddling quickly and trying to side step him.

"Not at all Miss – _Mrs_. Hudson."

Martha wasn't going to forget _that_ voice in a hurry – it had only haunted her dreams each and every time Thomas was late getting home and refused to pick up the phone. She looked up and met the eyes of Sherlock Holmes that were staring at her from under his curly fringe.

"You look older."

Well – his tact certainly hadn't improved with time. But somehow that was so refreshing; a breath of fresh air into her stale existence of Thomas' lies. Honesty was rare to her these days whether it was the unpredictability of her husband's faithfulness or her own untruths as she danced around the subject in an effort to hide the situation from her sister – but Martha found Sherlock's bluntness extremely wonderful.

"I am older, Mister." She said with a smile. "It's been a while since I last saw you." She let her eyes rove over his form and frowned. He wasn't looking so hot either. It was clear that he was rather down on his luck, probably why he was looking for sales, from the way the designer clothes she remembered from their last meeting were ill fitting and baggy and the tailored jacket was tattered. What had happened to Sherlock? Had his scholarship ran out? Had he gotten involved in gambling? She no longer held a grudge against the young man for his astute observations about Thomas and she certainly wished no ill will on him. So what was wrong?

Sherlock noticed her scrutiny and shifted uncomfortably. "Don't bother, Mrs. Hudson." He said.

"Don't bother with what?"

"Trying to deduce what I have been doing since our last meeting – you will not be successful."

She chuckled. "Is that a challenge, Sherlock?" Adjusting the basket over her arm, she selected a roll of paper towels and added it to her stash. "You know, most people find these sorts of things out by participating in polite conversation."

Sherlock pocketed the tin of talcum powder, shifting his hold on a bottle of bleach with a sneer. "I'm not most people."

"Perhaps not," He really had no reservations, did he? "But it certainly wouldn't kill you either. Are you planning on buying anything to eat?"

"Not today. I have no need to purchase anything of the sort – this is for an experiment that I must complete before my landlord gets home. I would have been working on it right now, but I ran out of supplies and after the last little issue I thought it would be best not to improvise."

"A little issue, eh?" Martha was intrigued. "What happened?"

"The bleach reacted negatively with the ammonia and lemon juice compound and nearly poisoned the neighbour's cat." Sherlock said flatly. "I never did like that beast."

Much as she felt sorry for the poor feline that had nearly lost its life to Sherlock's chemistry obsession, Martha couldn't help but be a bit amused at the idea of Sherlock frantically flinging open every window and then trying to explain the disaster. She could just picture him hanging his head like a naughty little boy and…Martha snuck a look at the tall figure beside her…no really she couldn't. Even with his slightly dishevelled appearance, Sherlock did not come across as the sort of person who would back down and shuffle in penitence to anyone.

She managed to keep up a stream of light conversation with the prickly student as they walked back to the front of the store and, surprisingly, he neither stalked away nor stonily ignored her. If Martha didn't know better she would say that Sherlock Holmes, easily one of the most anti-social people she had ever met, was enjoying her company. She didn't quite dare to assume that as it seemed very arrogant – but it was a nice thing to contemplate.

They made it through the checkout with little issue and Martha was just wondering if she could enlist his help to get her bags on the Tube when he suddenly hissed out a curse as the bottle of bleach slipped through his fingers. Thank goodness it was made of plastic and was only dented by the fall. Sherlock stumbled over to where it had rolled and picked it up, looking slightly annoyed at having to chase his merchandise over the pavement. Martha hid a smile at his embarrassment and silently de-double-bagged a couple of cans and held out the bag to him. "Here – use this." She said and he took the offering gratefully.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." The expression sounded a bit stiff – but, judging that it was Sherlock, Martha considered herself lucky to have received thanks at all. While he was bagging his items (including the talcum powder that she wasn't entirely certain he had paid for) she tried to fill in the awkward silence with a bit more friendly conversation. "So, Sherlock, what are you planning on making for lunch today?"

He looked up, eyes wide. "What?"

"If you're like my Thomas you're not much of a cook – but what are you going to make?"

"What day is it?" He straightened up. "Monday, right?"

Martha couldn't quite follow how this nonsequiter connected to her question, but she nodded. "Yes."

"Then I'm okay for a bit. Had a sandwich for breakfast yesterday."

"You mean you haven't eaten anything since yesterday morning?" Martha was horrified as Sherlock carelessly nodded. She reached out and caught his elbow, tugging him down the street after her – much to his bewilderment.

"Mrs. Hudson – what?" The great skinny goose spluttered in protest, but she was having none of it.

"We are getting you something to eat, young man."

"I don't require – "

"Nope, no, I simply will not hear any protests!" She kept a tight hold on Sherlock's arm and was somewhat heartened when he didn't react with shielding anger. "So, what would you like: italian, a sandwich, fish n' chips?"

Sherlock had given up on trying to tug away, but still tried one more argument. "I, uh, appreciate this _sentiment_, Mrs. Hudson." He said stiffly – practically choking on the word 'sentiment'. "But it's really not necessary. I'm only saving for the rent (can't afford to be late this month). Another day or two and I can – "

"Sandwiches it is, then." Martha guided him towards a small café, lugging her bags behind her. "It's nearly eleven-o-clock and I'm feeling a bit peckish myself. Indulge an old lady, would you? Have lunch with me." Sherlock made no move to correct the 'old lady' comment – but allowed Martha to lead him inside the café and to a little window table for two.

Martha paused as she read the menu board – uncertain as to Sherlock's likes and dislikes. Supposing he was a picky eater, or had religious strictures placed on his diet! (She mentally ruled out Mormonism or any similar establishment, given his clear tendency to smoke like a chimney, and made her best guess at the rest). Finally she settled on the roast beef sandwich (no dairy, no nuts, no pork) and a cup of coffee – something she hoped he wouldn't mind black. After a moment of deliberation during which she snuck a look at his bony, trembling hands, she ordered three hot, buttery croissants for afters.

Sherlock was impatiently tapping his fingers against the tabletop when she returned and his eyes darted to the door periodically, yet Martha was relieved to see that he hadn't bolted.

"Here we are, Sherlock!" She piped cheerfully, dropping into the seat opposite. "Eat up." He ignored her instructions in favour of carefully emptying every last grain from exactly two packets of sugar into his coffee and sipping the hot drink appreciatively. Martha studied his odd, handsome face – noting the pale skin and sharp features. He'd been skimping on his supplies more often than was good for him, it would seem. Well – she'd just have to do what she could to fix that, although she would have to be careful that she didn't alert his pride to what she was trying to do. First things first, though: she had to get some food into the silly boy. "Sherlock – are you vegetarian?"

Startled from his thoughts, Sherlock blinked and looked at her in confusion. "What?"

"Generally when someone puts a sandwich in front of you you're supposed to eat it, but if you don't eat meat I can go back and order you a salad."

"And generally whenever someone's husband is cheating on them they are supposed to leave – I guess neither of us are good at conforming to societal norms then, are we?"

Though she felt a jab of pain at Sherlock's reference to Thomas' unfaithfulness (of _course_ he would know) Martha didn't feel the burning anger that would have accompanied such a caustic observation merely a month ago. "I wasn't talking about my problems, Sherlock Holmes." She scolded. "You need to take better care of yourself. How can you expect to do well in your exams if you're not eating properly?"

Sherlock was examining her like she was an insect on a microscope slide and seemed to be very much surprised that she had neither flared up nor cleared out at his rather cruel outburst. Martha supposed that such attacks were probably just Sherlock's mode of defence as everything she had seen about him (both from this meeting and his days in her library) suggested that he didn't do people very well. At length, Sherlock took a bite of the sarnie and chewed slowly, speaking around the mouthful of roast beef and bun. "It wouldn't much matter since I'm no longer attending university."

"Oh – did you graduate early, Sherlock?" Martha had no doubt that he could have done so. He certainly had the brains for it.

"No. I left." Sherlock sniffed. "They were all idiots – I can learn far more experimenting on my own than I ever could in that hell hole."

Martha blinked. "But surely you need to get a degree."

"If any potential employer can't see my credentials without a measly piece of paper spelling it out for him then I don't want to be working there." Sherlock was still steadily working his way through the food and Martha wondered if keeping him talking would be the way to go. He didn't seem like the type to eschew food for his figure's sake, though, so maybe he was just forgetful about anything that wasn't being clever. "What about you, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock was speaking again. "I see you have gotten married – contrary to my advice."

"Yes. How did you know about that?" Much as Martha wanted to steer the conversation away from dangerous waters she was curious as to the secret of Sherlock's apparent omniscience.

"I didn't see, I observed."

"Meaning?" Martha waited while he downed some coffee. "How do you observe all that you do?"

"By looking. I saw that you were wearing a wedding ring – given the time frame it was not difficult to deduce who the other party was. Child's play."

"Still, not many people would have noticed that with just one look. I'm impressed Sherlock."

He took a moment to preen before launching back into the train of thought Martha most wanted to avoid. "And then there is your husband – Mr. Hudson. He is clearly a business man who is both highly obsessed with appearances and slightly paranoid. His clothing is of fine make, though it is clear that he scrimps money on his personal toiletries and probably on the undergarments as well. He constantly looks around him after he speaks – both to check what other's reactions are and to make sure that no one takes him by surprise. Given the variety of hair follicles gathering on his jacket I would say that he is fond of women – going through partners nearly by the month and sometimes entertaining more than one at a time. This also has factored into his paranoia, as his boss or one of his superiors probably frowns on inter-office relationships. This has driven him to drink on more than one occasion – though I would hope that your presence has somewhat dissuaded him from that. Then there is – "

"Now stop it, Sherlock!" Martha cut him off. "Please, stop."

He closed his mouth with a snap and looked at her in confusion. "I thought you would want to know."

"I already did. Please just leave it. I'm hear to talk about you – not Thomas."

"Why would you want to talk about me?"

Martha took a bite of a croissant and pushed the rest towards that silly boy, pleased whenever he dug in and demolished the pastry. "Because I haven't seen you for a while and I'm interested. So – what have you been up to recently?"

"There's honestly not much to tell. I've got myself a flat and yesterday I caught a rat to use as a guinea pig."

Wrinkling her nose (suddenly the food didn't look so appetising) Martha took a bracing sip of coffee. "Well no wonder you had no appetite!"

"Oh no," Sherlock was quick to reassure her, "I found it quite fascinating. Did you know that if you inject red blood cells with water they will bloat and explode?"

Martha was about to protest the morbid conversation when she caught his wicked grin. That sod! He was teasing her – testing to see whether or not she would run away screaming. So she only smiled and patted his hand. "That's fascinating, Sherlock dear."

He looked so surprised at her reaction that Martha felt it was worth the ensuing conversation about strychnine and decomposition. Were all teenage boys this morbid? At last, Sherlock wadded up his napkin and stood up. "You should be going." He said, offering her his hand in a rare show of courtesy. "Not only is the proprietor of this establishment giving us funny looks but I believe your husband will also be home soon – and I'm quite certain he expects you to be there and waiting with a smile, does he not?"

Glancing at the wall clock and confirming that it was indeed past four, Martha got to her feet and collected her shopping bags. Sherlock made no further move to help her and made for the door, only stopping whenever Martha called, "Wait! How can I get a hold of you, Sherlock?"

Instantly he was back beside her and pressing a scrap of paper into her hand, "Here is my mobile number and my email. Text me sometime." And then he was gone, vanished into the crowds of rush-hour London with his bleach and talcum powder.

"Goodbye, Sherlock." Martha said to herself and headed for home.


	4. A Study In Jailbreaking

.

* * *

Martha wasted no time in purchasing herself a cheap mobile phone and she racked up an impressive bill within the first month through text messages alone. She texted Sherlock religiously every day and though he never replied, it was somewhat comforting to have someone to chatter to whenever the long, lonely afternoons became unbearable. It wasn't as if Martha wasn't used to being alone (she had certainly lived as such for most of her adult life) but somehow it was much harder to do so whenever it wasn't voluntary. Before Martha had _chosen_ not to get a flatmate and had _chosen_ not to move in with any of the temporary boyfriends that had come and gone from her life. Loneliness is not half so pronounced whenever you haven't had a taste of the alternative. Now, though, with her knowing that her life could be different (that little taste of intimacy from the honeymoon had not been enough) Martha ached for the comforting arms of her husband to be reserved for her and only her. She longed for warm companionship and the promise of love untainted by distrust and cold shoulders. But that was her lot in life and there was no point in moping and moaning about it.

So rather than complaining to Sherlock she would chatter on about the trivial pleasures in life, nag him about his eating habits (because she fully believed that someone so genius _could_ be forgetful), and she made sure to tell him good-night every evening.

But as the months wore on and there was never any response, Martha found that her texting fervour began to fade. He probably wasn't even reading them – so why bother? No one listened to her anyway, why should she expect Sherlock to be any different?

His little prediction about Thomas being a habitual drinker was coming true also, much to Martha's dismay. It seemed that barely a day went by but that he wasn't knocking back some sort of liquor after dinner. Some days were worse than others (usually related to how things went with work and whether or not he had been able to arrange a tryst before coming home) and on the worse days Martha tiptoed about the house cleaning up supper long after Thomas had passed out in front of the television. It wasn't that every day was quite to that extent. In fact there would come times whenever all was going well and he scarcely touched the bottle – but then would come the times of pressure and uncertainty and Martha knew that she would be spending a lonely evening whilst her husband drowned his sorrows in a pickled haze.

It was remarkable, really, how a man as paranoid and obsessed with appearances as Thomas could so totally let his guard down and lose himself in the alcohol – but maybe all of that tension needed an outlet. Martha certainly preferred him stumbling drunkenly to bed to the nights whenever he decided to be a talkative drunk. For as soon as he had knocked back a few, any filters Thomas might have had were rolled away and she was subjected to the full force of his disdain and, at times, anger.

It was her fault, he said. If she wasn't nagging him all the time maybe he could concentrate better at work – maybe that last deal would have come through and he wouldn't have to scrimp and pinch to make ends meet. At one time Martha would have spoken up and pointed out that _she_ was doing the penny-pinching while _he_ burnt money on his booze and girls…but after a few ugly and violent fights, she learned to hold her tongue and seethe inwardly. It just wasn't worth it to fight back. He probably didn't mean half of it anyways (_"You're delusional, Martha."_ Her inner Sherlock would sometimes chide her – and she would tell him to go away unless he was going to answer her in the flesh). Besides – she found some kind of solace in the happy months whenever work was going well and Thomas was happy and going on business trips.

It was on one such business trip to America (an actual business trip, Martha hoped, not a side trip to Las Vegas) that Martha received a rather interesting phone call.

"Mrs. Hudson – I may have done something unfortuitously unfortunate."

Well if the posh baritone hadn't given it away the vocabulary certainly would have. "Sherlock?"

"Obviously." She could practically see him rolling his eyes. "I need you to come down to Scotland Yard straight away."

Oh dear lord! "Why? What happened?"

"These moronic excuses for Neanderthals have detained me." He sounded rather stiff and uncomfortable. "As I have little desire to spend any more time in this IQ-destroying environment…"

"You need me to come and bail you out?" Annoyance at his lack of communication aside, Martha couldn't help but be a bit amused by this predicament. In her experience (limited though it was) the more agitated Sherlock was the more sarcastic and rude he became in an effort to cope. Clearly he didn't want to admit that he needed her help – but she thought she should be flattered that she was the one he had used his phone call for. Maybe that sandwich and all of her texts had done a bit of good. Goodness only knows that the ridiculous boy needed someone to look out for him! Listening to his anxious shuffling that was audible even over the phone lines, Martha decided to put him out of his misery. "Just hang in there, Sherlock." She said. "I'll be down as soon as I can."

With that he hung up and she went for her coat, debating whether or not she could risk lifting the bail money from the bank account only after she was halfway out of the door. What was it about this prickly young genius that triggered her mothering instincts so?

Stopping only to withdraw the necessary funds, Martha headed straight for the Yard – navigating her way through reception until she was able to post the bail. Sherlock looked most disgruntled whenever he was led out and, judging by the black scowl on his face, so was the rather heavyset copper who had custody of him. Martha had a suspicion that the red-faced man had been subjected to the rougher side of Sherlock's tongue, courtesy of one of the genius' deductions. Really – that boy should use a few manners once and a while. Maybe then he wouldn't end up sitting in a cell.

"And stay away from my crime scenes!" The Detective Inspector finished berating the sulky Sherlock. "Next time you might just find yourself on the suspect list."

Sherlock sneered. "Oh please – as if anyone with half a brain would –"

"Sherlock!" Martha cut in before things could get any uglier. "I didn't come half way across London to listen to _this_. Come on – let's go."

He mumbled rebelliously (honestly – he was such a child!) but obediently followed her through the Yard building and outside where she elected to hail a cab rather than attempt to take the Tube. Sherlock's bail hadn't been as much as she had feared, so she still had enough money for cab fare. Besides – she wanted to have a little talk with the overgrown child she had just had to spring from jail.

"So, Sherlock, what was that all about?"

"DI Forthwright caught me examining his crime scene and seemed to take exception to my theory that the killer could possibly be a high-brow beautician. Foolish man!"

"Indeed. So he threw you in jail?"

"No – he threw me in jail after I informed him that he couldn't deduce his way out of a clear plastic bag. I really weep for the future of London sometimes, Mrs. Hudson. The morons currently patrolling our streets are unable to solve even the most obvious of crimes and the criminal class isn't much better. Nobody has any imagination these days."

If she didn't know better Martha would have said that Sherlock Holmes sounded rather morose about the coming intellectual apocalypse he had foreseen when usually the very mention of chaos made his eyes light up. She was prepared to scold him for this unpleasant outlook whenever the cabbie spoke up.

"Hate to interrupt, folks, but if I'm going to keep drivin' I really need to know where you want dropped off."

"Montague Street." Sherlock said before Martha could even draw a breath.

"No, ignore him – he's confused." She ignored his gaping mouth. "We want Baker Street – 221B, please."

"If you're sure…" The cabbie sighed and made the turn.

"Mrs Hudson – what are you doing?"

"We are going back to my house, love. It's nearly tea time and I need my cuppa. Besides – you're looking rather peaky yourself. I think you could do with a nice hot something."

"I am fine, Mrs. Hudson, and I really should be getting back to the flat. I had a toenail mould experiment started that was so promising…"

"Your bloody toenails can bloody well wait!" Martha snapped. "I haven't heard from you in over a year, Sherlock Holmes, and then you expect me to just waltz down and solve all of your problems whenever the whim takes you? I don't think so!"

Sherlock visibly bristled at this. "You are not my mother."

"And you can't go through life expecting people to put up with all of your crap." Martha retorted. "I want to help you, Sherlock – but these things are a two way street. If you continue to ignore me whenever I'm not useful to you then I may have to let you clean up your own messes for a while." She refused to let Sherlock use her the way Thomas did – she had made no vow to him.

"I don't need you to clean up my messes." His jaw was set stubbornly and his glare would have frightened her had she not dealt with cramming day at the library and the drunken rants of Thomas Hudson.

"No? Then what do you call what I had to do today? I suppose you would have sat there comfortably in that cell and asked the officers politely to let you out, eh?"

"No." Sherlock's teeth were audibly grinding as he conceded that point.

"Then I think you owe me an afternoon chat in payment for all of those texts you didn't answer and my jail breaking services today."

"Why did you come down?"

Martha blinked at the sudden confused and (dare she say it) almost vulnerable tone of Sherlock's voice. He certainly went through different emotions like a seesaw, "What do you mean?"

"If you thought I was ignoring you, why would you come down and help me? It doesn't make any sense."

Oh that boy! How could he make her go from feeling annoyed to blinking away tears so quickly? He really was a lonely soul who no one took the time to understand. "Because, Sherlock, despite all of your tendency to be rude, sarcastic, and superior, I like you." She saw his face freeze and knew that her assessment of him had been right. Hadn't he ever had a mother or father who loved him? "I only scold because I'm worried about you – now don't protest, that's just the way I am; a worrier. Besides – my husband is away and I have some pound cake in my cupboard that has been calling my name, but I couldn't possibly eat it alone."

She saw a tiny smile break out on his face and knew that she had won this round. Now if only they could get through the day without another argument!


	5. I Never Get Sick

**Author's Note:** _Goodness! This little one-shot extention has really grabbed me and taken me for a ride. One minute I'm looking at a four-page Word doc. and the next...holy deerstalker I've written over 10 pages - and that's just the outline! Anyways, I just want to take this time to say a huge THANK YOU to everyone who has reviewed/favourited this story. You guys are amazing. I've had a great time writing this story and it is so encouraging to know that people are enjoying it. May the river of plot-ideas never dry up!_

* * *

"Now, Sherlock – you have a seat in the kitchen while I whip us up a few nibbles." Martha directed Sherlock through her sitting room and tossed her jacket over the back of the sofa. She noted his eyes flicking all around the room, fastening for a moment on the empty liquor bottle next to the television – but he mercifully made no comment.

Martha busied herself making tea and heating up some of her cheese sarnies (Sherlock certainly looked like he could use a few and she wouldn't say no to a little snack herself) while the young man poked absently about her kitchen – doubtlessly deducing what she had eaten for breakfast five days ago. It was nice and relaxing to have Sherlock in her house. It just felt right. She spun around as she heard Sherlock sneeze, a witty quip about sniffing pepper on her lips until she saw him wiping his nose surreptitiously on his sleeve (bad habit, that). "Sherlock, dear, are you getting sick?"

His head jerked up. "I don't get 'sick', Mrs. Hudson." The sneer was audible and Martha rolled her eyes.

"Oh really? Because that sneeze sounded like you're picking up a bit of a cold." Now that she was looking for it, Martha could see that his nose was a bit red and she realised that she could attribute some of his peaky appearance to the fact that he was clearly coming down with something.

"I am perfectly fi-fine-ACHOO!" Sherlock doubled over and ruefully sneezed into his jacket sleeve again.

Martha snorted. "Of course you're fine – you're absolutely fine even though you're sneezing your brains out. Forgive me for my unfair assessment of your health, oh king of fineness!"

He glared at her and dropped into a chair, picking at the tabletop. Martha opened the cupboard and retrieved a can of chicken soup. Sherlock sniffed disdainfully from his place by the table – but whenever she set it in front of him he put it away without any complaints. After he sneezed a few more times, glaring at her each time as if daring her to comment, Martha was convinced that he was indeed coming down with something. Not that Sherlock would ever admit to it, she was sure, but she had to at least try.

"Sherlock – are you sure you aren't getting sick?"

Bristling visibly, the genius glared at her and snapped, "For the love of God, Mrs. Hudson – stop nagging me!"

Okay. So maybe she hadn't been as subtle as she had thought. Time to back off before he bolted. Martha decided to give Sherlock his way and carefully steered the conversation back to the mould experiment he had mentioned…and immediately regretted it as he perked up and launched into a detailed description of his theory that battery acid would disintegrate the keratin of the clippings in a particular pattern and order. Despite the rather disgusting topic of conversation Martha felt it was all too soon when Sherlock glanced at the clock and announced that he really should be going. He brushed off all of her protests ("I _know_ Mr. Hudson isn't at home – but I need to get back before dark) and headed out the door and into the busy street.

* * *

Some two days later Martha was feeling morose. It was a dull, grey day and the cloudy sky was constantly spitting down a cold, soaking rain that dashed against the windowpanes with every gust of wind. Miserable – that's all this weather was – and miserable was what Martha was feeling. She supposed it was a combination of the dismal outdoors and the empty dark inside; but didn't really feel that she had energy to do anything about the latter. She had already wiped down every cupboard and surface in the entire house and there was only so many times that a person could do the hoovering before the vacuum, in the absence of dirt, was forced to suck in the carpet. To make matters worse she had just found out that Thomas would be away for an extra week and, judging by the giggling and music in the background, this extension wasn't for business purposes. Martha wondered why she even hoped it would be different. What was the point of it all? She just wanted to curl up under the covers and never come out again…but was feeling too restless for that to be a satisfying refuge.

The television droned on with the usual afternoon crap, but Martha only paid it half a mind. She considered phoning her sister, though their discussions were always rather draining as she tried to avoid the subject of Thomas (she refused to let Kathy, the woman with the perfect-stranger-turned-husband love story, know just how bad things were in the 221A flat). At least it would be _something_!

Martha dragged herself off of the sofa and dialled Kathy's number, listening silently while the other woman cheerfully nattered on about her daughter who had just recently won a track and field meet and her son who was the top of his science class. She would never have children. Even if there wasn't the obvious roadblock of Thomas' preference for other women's beds to contend with Martha would never want to be responsible for bringing a child into her world of loneliness and disappointment hidden behind a brave, brittle smile.

Still – she couldn't help but feel just a bit jealous of her sister's happy life. Clearly this phone call had been a mistake and Martha was (guiltily) relieved whenever someone knocked and she could hang up with a "Sorry, Kathy – someone at the door!"

The heavy front door swung open and Martha blinked in surprise at the sodden form of Sherlock Holmes who was leaning against the doorjamb, blocking out the fast-fading light of the rainy late afternoon. But a worried frown quickly replaced her surprise as he bent over and hacked out a wet-sounding cough. "Get yourself inside, Sherlock Holmes!" She said, grabbing his jacket and yanking him through the doorway. "You look like a drowned rat!"

"Astute observation, Mrs. Hudson." His voice was raspy.

Martha sighed – it looked as though she had been right; that ridiculous boy _was_ sick. "You sound terrible!" She pulled off his jacket and debated wringing it out over the tub. "Feeling a bit under the weather?"

Sherlock shivered slightly, looking quite pathetic. "I may be… suffering from a strain of the (_cough, cough_) rhinovirus." He snuffled and wiped his nose on the driest part of shirt he could locate.

Much as she felt rather vindicated – she had _told_ him – Martha couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for Sherlock. Colds were nasty and he probably hadn't admitted to this one until it was too late to nip some of the more unpleasant symptoms in the bud. "Right," she said firmly, taking charge, "the bathroom is right down that hall. I want you to get a shower, hot as you can stand it, so that you can breath in some of the steam and get yourself warmed up. You're like an iced lolly and you're dripping all over my carpet! What were you thinking, going out in this weather when you're feeling poorly?"

"Victor kicked me out." Sherlock said matter-of-factly as he made for the bathroom, surprisingly complying with her orders. "Told me not to come back for the weekend. Guess he doesn't like Prokofiev."

Before Martha could react to that news (or ask what the hell Prokofiev was – it sounded like a nasty brand of aftershave) Sherlock had disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a bang. She heard the shower start up and shook her head. "Oh Sherlock," she murmured. "What am I going to do with you?"

She put on some tea water and hunted all through her pantry in search of more chicken soup (it was clearly about time for her weekly shopping trip) that she could heat up and the necessary herbs to turn the dish into something somewhat medicinal. Her mother had always sworn by the meal for colds or flu and in Martha's humble experience the hot liquid provided a bit of comfort to the afflicted even if it wasn't a cure. She noted that she was running low on thyme and mentally made a note to add it to her shopping list as soon as she got Sherlock settled. He may be a genius about science and dirty secrets, but he was absolute rubbish at looking after himself. He needed someone; and if she didn't do it, probably no one would. Certainly Sherlock couldn't be bothered!

Once the soup was heating and the Twinings was brewing (a proper pot – not just a teabag swilled around in a mug) Martha headed into the bedroom and dug out a pair of Thomas' winter pyjamas for Sherlock. He was not so broad as her husband, of course, but they would just have to do until she could get his clothes dried for him. No way was she going to let him sleep in a tattered dress shirt, at any rate. She would take in the waistband herself first. But hopefully it wouldn't come to that. Somehow Martha doubted that Thomas would appreciate her handing out his clothes to someone. Well sod him! He was off goodness knows where doing God knows what – so what she did in his absence was none of his business!

Martha knocked on the bathroom door. "Sherlock – can you hear me?" She called, not really surprised whenever he didn't answer. "I'm coming in to pick up your wet things. Are you decent?"

"I am shielded from your view, if that's what you mean." Sherlock sounded rather irritable.

"Good. I'm going to leave some clothes on the toilet lid for you. My Thomas is about your height so they should fit. Once you get them on come on out to the kitchen for some supper."


	6. I Lost On Jeopardy

.

* * *

Martha looked up from her cooking as Sherlock padded into the kitchen and couldn't stifle a fond grin. He looked so comical in Thomas' nightwear! The pyjamas practically swallowed the boy's thin frame whole and between the baggy fabric and his rat's nest of curls the whole effect was rather like a small child trying on his father's clothes. Not that she could imagine Thomas being a father, mind, but Sherlock looking so young would certainly make dealing with him a bit easier. Somehow she didn't think he would find it so easy to be standoffish while dressed in stripes.

"Thank you for the clothes," Sherlock said stiffly, clearly uncomfortable with those foreign words.

She made a point of smiling at him. "Oh not at all – I couldn't let you go around in your wet things, now could I?"

He shrugged and sprawled in a chair, accepting the hot cup of tea gratefully and wrapping his hands around the mug to soak up the heat. "I could have managed."

"Doesn't mean it would have been good for you, though." Martha pointed out, sipping her own mug and wishing for a bit of lemon. "Just how long were you out there like that, anyway?"

"I'm not sure." Sherlock said. "I didn't really time it."

"Well no matter – you're here now and there's no way I'm letting you go back out in this weather with that cough of yours. So I'm afraid you're stuck here with me until you're doing better."

He rolled his eyes and, Martha wasn't sure, but she thought she caught a small smile before he hid behind his tea mug. She was very happy that he had come to her (where else would he have gone?) and determined in her mind to get him all healthy as soon as possible so he could go and give Victor (the personage she assumed was his landlord) a piece of his mind. Clearly the man needed it if he had kicked someone who was clearly ill out into the cold to fend for themselves!

They made light conversation for the rest of the evening – Sherlock eagerly consuming everything hot or sweet in sight and, much to Martha's delight, submitting to her fussing with only a token protestation. Maybe she was finally getting through to him! Finally, about half past eight, Martha handed Sherlock a pillow and some blankets and directed him to her sofa. "Now I expect you to still be here when I get up in the morning, young man." She said sternly. "None of your gallivanting about until I say you're all better, is that clear?"

"Crystal, ma'am." He said with a sloppy salute (clearly the hot food had put him in an amiable mood) and started making up a bed for himself. Martha had built a fire earlier so she felt certain that he would be warm enough.

"There's some wood in the coal scuttle if it starts to get drafty in here. I would ask that you not turn up the thermostat – and I know you could figure out how – unless it is absolutely necessary, but with the fire and blankets you should be warm enough."

"I will be fine, Mrs. Hudson."

She smiled. "I'll say goodnight then, Sherlock. You go on ahead and start winding down; a body needs extra rest whenever its trying to fight off infection."

There was another roll of the eyes, but he acquiesced and vanished onto the sofa. Martha pottered about the kitchen quietly for a while; clearing up the dishes and making sure everything was ready for tomorrow. She tried not to disturb her guest, but every once and a while she could hear him stir restlessly and cough. Tomorrow, no matter how much he complained, she was going to give him some medicine. The last thing either of them wanted to deal with was a trip to the doctor's or (even more unpleasant) A&E. He had better follow her instructions and stay in out of the elements. She did _not_ want to have a case of pneumonia on her hands!

* * *

"Good morning, Sherlock!" Martha sang the next morning as she emerged from the bedroom. The rain of the previous day was gone and the sun was shining – but that wasn't why she felt so absurdly happy. It was quite nice to wake up and know that, not only was she not alone in the house, but that the other occupant was neither going to be drunk nor unpredictable in his moods.

"What's good about it?"

Yes – not unpredictable at all. If anything Sherlock was incredibly predictable in his perpetual cagey rudeness; but just this once Martha felt he had a right to be rather grumpy, if the stuffy rasp of his voice was any indication as to how he was feeling.

"Did you sleep well last night? I figured the sofa would be softer than our old lilo, but if you think you'd prefer it I can get it out and start up the hairdryer (the pump is broken, you see) or maybe – "

Sherlock coughed. "I slept fine." He retrieved a tissue from the box he must have grabbed last night and blew his nose with great dignity. "It's just a cold."

"Just a cold or not, you sound awful. Your clothes are in the laundry room so go and get dressed while I start up some breakfast. Bacon, eggs, and mushrooms sound good to you? If not I think we still have some boxed cereal in the pantry."

"I don't care." Sherlock heaved himself off of the couch and headed down the hallway with a yawn, rubbing one hand through his hair and making the already unruly curls stand up as though gelled. It wasn't long before Martha heard the bathroom door shut and the shower start up so she started to scout out what she could make for a hot, nutritious breakfast (she had retrieved the paracetamol from the bathroom cabinet earlier and fully planned on making Sherlock take a full dose over breakfast).

It was nearly a half-hour later whenever he finally emerged, pink-skinned from his hot shower and dressed once again in the now cleaned and dried dress jeans and shirt that he had been wearing the night before. "You're just in time," Martha said brightly. "Breakfast is served!"

He sat himself at the table with a grunt and started putting away the steaming plate of food, pausing only to snuffle occasionally and employ the use of a tissue. He looked truly miserable and Martha wasted no time in forcing some of that paracetamol and tea down his throat, despite his weak protest. "You really are Mr. Grouch today, aren't you?" She said fondly when he retired his wounded dignity to the living room and picked up a magazine to hide behind.

Mere hours later she wasn't feeling so fond of the sickly genius. If Sherlock was brusque and rude on a good day then he was infinitely more frustrating whenever feeling poorly. He wanted to go outside (Martha told him no – the sun was out but it was still quite brisk) he wanted something to read (Martha handed him an Agatha Christie – he solved the mystery within the first few chapters and declared it boring) he didn't feel like eating lunch (Martha said _'shut up and sit down'_ – he replied that eating was _'dull'_). By mid-afternoon she was feeling quite tired herself and, in desperation, turned to Thomas' collection of _Jeopardy _dvds in an effort to keep Sherlock's mind busy. For the first time she thanked her husband for ordering the blasted things online as Sherlock seemed find a new outlet for his frustration and settled down to contentedly ream out the contestants for their stupidity, completely ignoring the pop-culture questions that he himself was completely stumped by.

Martha herself quickly tired of the _Jeopardy_ marathon (repetitious American publicity that it was) and set about planning out what she could use to make supper without having to make a run to the shops, settling in the end for heating up some cold beef and potatoes that had originally (before she knew she would be feeding two) been intended for her lunch tomorrow. It was all fine, though. If Sherlock was doing better tomorrow she might risk nipping out and picking up some supplies – if she felt she could trust him not to either bolt or overtax himself. He certainly was an ancy patient!

She headed out into the kitchen and started cutting up a few onions to sauté with the leftover mushrooms from breakfast. No one could ever have too many of those, she felt, and the butter had been sitting out practically all day so it should probably be used. Martha smiled as she listened to Sherlock's exercised commentary from the sitting room – he certainly was getting into the show! Standing there preparing dinner and listening to his voice, Martha wondered if this was what it would be like to have a son. Granted she hoped that any boy she would have raised would have a better handle on manners than Sherlock did – but right now she felt that she wouldn't trade that silly, rude boy for anything in the world. God must have surely been blessing her whenever he sent young Mr. Holmes into her life and Martha felt that she would happily live this way forever, even if it meant putting up with some of Sherlock's more unpleasant moments.

It was while she was dreamily imagining a future where Thomas no longer plagued her life (either because he had gone or because they had finally worked things out between them) and Sherlock was living in the empty flat upstairs where he wouldn't have to worry about missing meals to save up money for the rent or a landlord who would kick him out to scrounge on the streets for a few days. Martha only counted her lucky stars that Sherlock had decided, for whatever reason, to come here whenever he was ejected from his home. Goodness only knows what trouble he could have found wandering the streets, alone and sick! So deep was she in these thoughts that she didn't notice her knife coming to the end of the onion until it was too late and a sudden burst of pain shook her from her reverie as the blade bit into her hand. "Oh bollocks!" She hissed, stifling a cry and a stronger curse. Dropping the knife and wincing as the strong juice of the onion entered the cut, Martha hastily blotted the blood with a napkin and made for the bathroom to dress her wound.

Fortunately it was not deep or serious (it looked uglier than it really was) and she was able to patch it up nicely with a couple of plasters and finish the meal.

Still in a good mood from his defeat of the hundred or so contestants (Martha didn't have the heart to remind him that none of them had heard his extremely creative insults) Sherlock inhaled his supper and obligatory medicine without complaint – even going so far as to drop his plates off in the sink.

"Sherlock, dear, do you think you could manage the washing up?" Martha took a dishrag in her good hand and started to wipe down the table. "I would do it, but…" She waved the afflicted appendage in the air and his eyes narrowed.

"You really shouldn't let your mind wander whilst cutting things, Mrs. Hudson." He scolded, mimicking her tone and inflection almost perfectly. "The onions, was it?"

"Mmmhmm."

He was already seeking out the washing-up liquid and getting the water hot. Well – he was into Chemistry; he must know how to keep his equipment clean. "Thank you, Sherlock." Martha said, stacking up the serving dishes and bringing them over to the sideboard while Sherlock rolled up his sleeves and launched into a recap of one particularly thick contestant (a 23-year-old surfer from California) who hadn't known that it was the shooting of Franz Ferdinand that started the Great War. Go figure that Sherlock wouldn't know who Camilla is (or was) but he would know about the assassination that sparked one of the most horrific conflicts of the ages.

Then suddenly, while he chattered on, Martha froze, dishcloth stilling on the plate she was drying as her eyes fixed on the little marks in the crook of Sherlock's elbow. She had a sneaking, horrible suspicion what those were from. It was impossible to work three years as a school librarian and _not_ hear something about drugs.


	7. Meet The Family

.

* * *

**Previously...**

_Then suddenly, while he chattered on, Martha froze, dishcloth stilling on the plate she was drying as her eyes fixed on the little marks in the crook of Sherlock's elbow. She had a sneaking, horrible suspicion what those were from. It was impossible to work three years as a school librarian and not hear something about drugs._

* * *

Sherlock's voice seemed to be coming from a long ways away, rambling on about nonsense that her brain automatically tuned out as she tried to process what her eyes were seeing.

No – surely it wasn't true! Maybe he had just been in the hospital or he had diabetes _("You're being blind again, Martha – if he had diabetes he wouldn't be able to get away with all of the sugar he puts on his food nor would he be able to go without eating for so long.")_ She didn't want to even consider the thought that Sherlock – her wonderful, brilliant boy – could be a druggie. It just didn't line up.

And yet, somehow it fit only too well. Now she had an explanation for the severe lack of funding (despite the contradiction of someone fitting him out with a fine, tailored wardrobe) and the rather pronounced thinness of his frame. She had a rudimentary understanding of what havoc chemical dependency could wreak on the body – and suddenly saw the 'ancy' body language and absent scratching of the arms in a new light. What was she to do?

Gratefully noting that he was deeply absorbed in scrubbing a particularly stubborn piece of crusty gravy from a dish and so would probably not notice her scrutiny, Martha looked him up and down – checking for the telltale signs that she knew of; but there were none. He wasn't shaking or sweating and were it not for his red nose and raspy voice she would think him the picture of health.

So maybe he was a recovering addict, then. Maybe his long silence during that last year hadn't all been because he was forgetful or snobbish – maybe he honestly had been having a bad time of it. She glanced at the track marks again, noting with a touch of relief that they all seemed to be old and fading. Thank God! He was probably recovering from whatever he had been addicted to so she would say nothing. No point in reminding him of something he was probably trying hard not to think about, after all.

Very much relieved (and hoping that she was right) Martha turned her attention back to the stack of clean dishes that were accumulating on the sideboard and set about drying them. She would deal with the chest cold first - then, if it became necessary, she would mention the drug use - but she _really_ hoped it wouldn't come to that.

* * *

"Now I'm heading out to the shops, love." Martha said the next morning as she shrugged on her jacket and scarf. "Is there anything in particular you want me to pick up while I'm there? Anything you've had a hankering for?"

Sherlock, who was sitting on the sofa reading through her most recent subscription of _Spirit & Destiny_, shook his head.

"All right, if you're sure." She grabbed her handbag from the kitchen table. "Our lunch is in the oven – just keep an eye on it, yeah? I should be back in time to take it out so all you have to do is make sure you don't turn up the heat."

The look on Sherlock's face broadcasted very clearly his thoughts on the very idea that he could ever be so stupid, making Martha smile. "See you in an hour or so – feel free to turn on the telly or the wireless. What's mine is yours." And with that Martha left, making her way towards the nearest Tube station with a shopping list tucked into her pocket.

This shopping trip was really a must, even though it was only Saturday. Not only had she been a bit low on supplies before she knew that she was going to be having a guest; but also over the past two days Sherlock had steadily eaten his way through all of the biscuits in her house and completely finished any milk products. He was like a living Hoover whenever anything containing sugar was anywhere near his vicinity. She wondered if all teenage boys were like that or just the ones she had had contact with. Though, she couldn't really call Sherlock a teenager – since her first meeting he had grown both older and somehow still taller. She wasn't even entirely certain how old he was now.

Navigating her way through Tesco's with an ever-filling trolley, Martha set about stocking up on produce, canned soup, orange juice, and several different types of digestives. She also made sure to pick up an extra package of tea, given the way Sherlock had been going through it, and two cartons of whole milk. It wasn't until she was checking out, not-courtesy of a blond teen who was more interesting in snapping her gum than being careful with the apples, that Martha begin to wonder how on earth she was going to get all of this stuff home on the Underground.

She did her best – lugging the heavy bags along the sidewalk and trying not to feel as though she was waddling. Perhaps she should have brought Sherlock along after all; he could have worn one of Thomas' coats and helped carry the groceries. Well, no matter moaning over hindsight genius now. Maybe she could call a cab…

There was a buzz from her pocket. Martha groaned; someone in this universe really hated her right about now. It wasn't a good time to stop and fish out her phone to check the messages – but it wasn't like she could just ignore it either as the notice could be anything from a 'your service days will run out at the end of the month' notice to Thomas telling her he was home early to Sherlock texting to say that he had set the oven on fire by accident (something she wouldn't put past him, given his fascination with the deadly and dangerous). So making her way over to the wall of an electronics shop and gingerly setting down her burdens, Martha retrieved her phone and scanned the message.

_Look to your left._

Look to your left? What the hell did that mean? Martha rolled her eyes and was about to go on her merry way whenever a second message buzzed in – this time definitely for her.

_I do not say things merely for the pleasure of hearing my own voice, Mrs. Hudson. Look to your left._

Okay. That was creepy. Martha glanced around cautiously, wondering if there was some pompous hacker watching her from a nearby alley. But of course she saw nothing so, before another text could come through – Martha did the logical thing and snuck a quick look to her left. Huh, there was nothing there but a bunch of television sets for sale. Guess it was just one of those kids prank-texting again, though how they had known her name and number was a bit of a worrisome mystery.

And then the words started to scroll across the television screen – words that were the same colour as the green jacket she was currently wearing.

_Martha Elaine Hudson neé Losbourne, I presume?_

What the hell?

_If you look towards the café on your right there is a camera near the awning…see it?_

"Yes I see it. I don't know what I'm looking for, tho – eek!" Martha stifled a startled cry as the CCTV camera performed a sudden twirl, suddenly looking right at her. Nervously she glanced back at the television, which was displaying a new message.

_A car will pick you up at the next block, Mrs. Hudson. Don't try to avoid it – they_ will_ pick you up. I think it's time we had a little chat._

If that didn't sound ominous, nothing else did; but Martha could see no way out of this situation. Besides – she had her pepper spray and three bags full of canned goods that could be used as effective weapons. If anyone really wanted to try something she'd bean them right where it would do the most good…and she wasn't particular about the logistics of the hit just so long as they went down.

* * *

Well the car was certainly plumy and posh! Uncertain as she was, Martha couldn't help but lean back into the plush seats with a sigh and stretch out her weary legs. If she was to be abducted then at least she would jolly well make the most out of this trip and enjoy the comforts of her abductor's rather lavish style before she had to bludgeon him (or her) with an olive jar.

Looking out the window, Martha saw that they were driving into the Battersea Power Station (the landmark that was on Thomas' calendar for this month) and she privately wondered if she was about to be the victim of an ill-fated MI-5 assassination botch-up, then told herself that she had been watching entirely too much James Bond if she was seeing the Secret Service and Mafia in everything that happened to her.

One of the expressionless suits that were her chauffeurs got out of the front seat and opened her door. "Mrs. Hudson, please come with me."

Clutching her bag of canned goods in one hand and the pepper spray in the other, Martha followed the suspect-government agent up a pair of stairs and into the labyrinth of the station. She was led into a semi-darkened room that was completely bare, save for a green velvet armchair that sat in one of the many beams of light that had managed to find its way through the crisscrossed weave of beams to strike the wooden floor. There her suited escort left her, presumably returning to the car and hopefully waiting for her to come back again.

"Do please have a seat, Mrs. Hudson."

Martha did as she was told, looking around intently for the speaker and feeling more nervous about this situation by the second.

"I do apologise for the covert operations – but when one is attempting to be discreet one must sometimes go to great lengths to conceal one's tracks."

"Somehow I think that whatever you did to those television sets would have attracted more attention than a simple phone call – no matter how much the government listens in." Martha observed, making sure that her handbag with the pepper spray was secure in her lap.

There was an emotionless laugh and the mysterious speaker stepped into the light. He was a youngish, rather rotund young man dressed in an impeccable, pinstriped three-piece suit. His red hair was slicked over to one side until not one hair could make a bid for freedom and he carried a black brolly by his side like a walking stick. Martha studied his face, which was carefully projecting an intimidating but not threatening look, and noted with a shiver that behind the façade there was no emotion to be detected at all. She might not have been Sherlock Holmes – but being a librarian (three years in a school and twelve in the public) had taught her a thing or two about observing people. This young man was old before his time – with emotions carefully concealed behind the round, slightly pudgy face with the sharp nose and oddly familiar eyes to a degree that they were practically nonexistent. Martha thought to herself that maybe if she played up the dotty housewife image she seemed to be projecting lately (she even had the baggy coat and wispy scarf) maybe she could get out of this situation sooner rather than later.

"Well I don't care what you thought you were doing." She babbled, wringing her hands for good measure. "I was just about to head home from my weekly shopping trip for a nice cup of tea whenever your driver picked me up. Lovely seats in that car of yours, by the way." She briefly wondered if she was laying it on too thick – but figured that too much was probably better than too little.

"Compliments aside, Mrs. Hudson," the man said, leaning on his brolly as though it was a workman's shovel (not that Martha could ever imagine this posh fellow doing work with his hands), "I must ask of you – do you plan to continue your association with one Sherlock Holmes?"

Martha blinked. Now that was not what she had been expecting and briefly wondered what exactly Sherlock had done to attract the attention of the official looking personages. "Forgive me, but I really don't see what is so important about that. What does Sherlock have to do with you?"

"A good deal. We have a long and complicated history together that would take far too long for us to delve into here and now. Please do answer my question, Mrs. Hudson."

Though he said the magic word, Martha had a feeling that it wasn't a request. "Well – I don't really see that it is any of your business," She started, "but yes, yes I do. The poor boy needs someone to look out for him." That last bit wasn't acting; she spoke the truth as she saw it – Sherlock Holmes needed someone and if that someone needed to be her then no amount of posh fellows with classy cars could dissuade her.

"It could be, Mrs. Hudson, it could be." There was a flicker of something (condescending amusement?) in those eyes – but it was gone before Martha could be certain, replaced by clinical coldness. "Are you aware of Sherlock Holmes'…_recreational_ activities?"

Oh gods – what had that boy gotten himself into? "If by 'recreational' you mean eating my biscuits and conducting experiments with cleaning supplies then yes – I am quite aware of that habit." She wasn't about to reveal more than she had to – at least not until she was sure how much this slimy brolly-lover knew about Sherlock.

The slimy brolly-lover gave her a cold, pitying smile. "I take it then that you were not aware that he periodically succumbs to fits of what he calls 'boredom' where he injects a seven percent solution of distilled cocaine."

"Oh – that." Dear heavens! What had Sherlock done that could possibly warrant the MI-5 or Secret Service or whatever the _hell_ this smarmy individual was affiliated with to keep such close tabs on him? Had he stolen something to fuel his drug habit? Martha had heard horror stories about the withdrawal and desperation that was associated with chemical dependency. When she got back if Sherlock was sporting any track mark that looked to be newer than at least a month old she was going to drive him to rehab herself!

Despite all of these thoughts which were swirling around in her head, Martha was determined to give her best stab at dissembling if it kept Sherlock from the government's clutches long enough for her to deal with the situation. "I knew that he had the habit – dear boy can't hid anything from _me_ – but he is trying so hard to kick it that I'm sure he isn't using anymore."

She was the recipient of another pitying look. "That may be the case, Mrs. Hudson, and I hope that you are right – for however long it lasts. But I did not bring you here to discourse about fallible assumptions." With precise care he extracted a diary from his breast pocket and thumbed through the pages contemplatively, letting the silence stretch out awkwardly.

"Well?" Martha was compelled to ask at last, tightening her grip on her groceries. "Why did you bring me here?" She scooted to the edge of her seat anxiously, determined not to go down without a fight. She'd bash slick-and-suited over the nose herself first.

"That would be most auspicious of you, Mrs. Hudson." Slick-and-suited said, not even looking up from the book.

_Stay in character, stay in character!_ "Eh? What are you on about, dear?" She hoped she didn't sound too sarcastic on that last endearment.

"Do not entertain any ideas of grandiose and ridiculous heroics with that bag of chicken soup, pickles, and – " He spared her a cursory glance, " – olives. Such action would not be wise – no matter how well-thought-out (as your posture and fingernails indicate) you may feel it is."

Martha narrowed her eyes at him. That spiel certainly sounded eerily familiar – she had heard a similar speech only this morning whenever she had bid a certain someone to tear himself away from the morning news and come for breakfast. "Are you related to Sherlock?"

Much to her eternal satisfaction, Mr. Umbrella actually looked up and blinked at her in unmasked surprise. She knew that she had probably blown her 'doting old simpleton' persona that she had been hoping would get her out of this situation without any need for 'heroics' – but she couldn't really being herself to care as she had succeeded in shaking the formally inscrutable man's façade a bit.

"I see you show a small amount of perception, Mrs. Hudson." He said blandly, mask firmly back in place. "I have brought you to this place in order to make you a proposition. I am prepared to offer a certain sum of money in exchange for periodical…reports on the doings of Sherlock Holmes. Nothing indecent, mind, nothing you would feel uncomfortable giving."

"Now why would I want to tell you anything?"

There was another pitying, empty smile as he pulled out his diary again. "Perhaps because your husband, Thomas Malcolm Hudson, is a serial adulterer to tends towards both drink and violence whenever life refuses to conform itself to his depressingly superficial and clinically paranoid view of the world; yet despite all of these factors you have yet to make a move to leave him, though you are perceptive enough to know that in the end things will never work out between you. You don't leave him, partially because of your mistaken belief that wedding vows are 'for better or for worse', even though your husband has already nulled the contract by violating the terms a dozen times over within the past year alone, but more likely you stay because you are not a wealthy woman and must rely on him for your financial security." He brandished the diary for emphasis. "This may be enough to gain you your freedom, should you so desire it (and any normal, sane person would)."

"You're his cousin, aren't you?" Martha said suspiciously, deliberately ignoring the way this man had just purposefully and relentlessly aired all of her life's dirty laundry. "It would explain a lot, actually."

She couldn't be sure – but she thought that he blinked in surprise again. "I am his elder brother, if you must know." He said – apparently deducing that her having this knowledge would not be a threat.

"Then what are you doing talking to me?" Martha demanded. "You're his brother – call him yourself!"

"No, no – that would not do at all." Mr. Holmes the elder said, carefully examining the tip of his brolly. "We have what you might call a difficult relationship. I am certain that he would not respond well to my interference."

'Difficult relationship' indeed! Martha could have guessed as much, given the way that Sherlock had used his single jail phone call to contact her – a woman he barely even knew – rather than this wealthy brother who probably _ran_ the police service, but what sort of family were they if they refused to help each other out when it came to something serious as Sherlock's situation? Drugs were nothing to sneeze at; neither was having to go without food just to able to pay the rent (even if part of the reason was that the money probably went for aforementioned drugs). Not for the first time she wondered just what Sherlock's childhood had been like – particularly if it had also produced this elder brother.

"So, Mrs. Hudson. What say you?" Big Brother sounded just a wee bit impatient and Martha decided to let him have it.

"I say that you should be ashamed of yourself – letting your little brother suffer the way he has. Sod 'difficult relationships'! He's your family. If you aren't willing to try and help him yourself then I won't be a party to anything you would ask of me. I don't care what you're offering or how much you claim to care; you can take that money and stick it where the sun don't shine, as far as I'm concerned! Now if you'll excuse me, dear, I left a shepherd's pie in the oven that I really should be getting back to make sure Sherlock eats." She stood up and arranged her belongings.

Sherlock's elder brother looked surprised, annoyed, and the slightest bit amused. "I see you have chosen your side, Mrs. Hudson. My driver will drop you off at home – do have a nice day." With a flourish of the umbrella he strode off with a relaxed yet deliberate stride. Martha shook her head and hauled her groceries back to the car. There was no point in turning down a free ride in so posh accommodations, after all.


	8. Laughter Is The Best Medicine

.

* * *

Very much perturbed, Martha exited the posh black car and hauled her groceries into the house. Sherlock was exactly where she had left him – sprawled on the couch in Thomas' pyjamas, flipping idly through her magazines.

"Sherlock - please come and help put this soup away. I need you to reach the highest shelf for me."

He let out a gusty sigh (and immediately turned into a cough) but eventually hauled himself out of the upholstery and shuffled into the kitchen where Martha was sorting out the refrigerator items from the canned goods. "Lots of chicken soup, love." She said, handing over the first batch of cans. "Good for what ails you."

There was a derisive snort from the lanky genius as he gathered the cans into his arms and headed for the pantry. Martha stuffed the rest of the groceries into the fridge and headed to check on their lunch – now nicely brown. Curls of aromatic, delicious steam wafted from the dish and she inhaled appreciatively. Her mother had always made this for the winter holidays and just smelling it brought back memories of warm, cosy nights by the fire – times that she usually tried not to think about as Thomas drank himself into a pickled haze.

Sherlock padded back into the kitchen for the next load, skirting around her where she was still bent over the open oven door with care.

"What were you doing with _him_?"

Martha spun around in shock as the shocked and, dare she say it, betrayed voice of Sherlock Holmes snapped out. He had stopped short and was staring at her with wide, cold eyes. It occurred to her that all of the progress she had made with him over their acquaintanceship was in danger of being stripped away wholly – though she was not entirely sure what had made him suddenly so skittish.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?"

"He got to you, didn't he?" She could see that every muscle in his body was tense and ready for flight. "He always has to spoil _everything_!"

"Who?"

"Bloody _Mycroft_, that's who!" Sherlock snapped, spitting the name like the vilest of curses. "Only his car has such a distinctive stench of leather, vinyl, and pastries." He glared and kicked sulkily at the nearest chair. "I'd better be going."

Martha blocked his path as he made his way to edge by her, noting the way that he took a step back away from her and slammed all of his barriers into place. "You're not going anywhere with that cough, young man." She said firmly. "Another day or two of rest and you should shake it – but you haven't yet. Is that landlord of yours even going to let you back in just now?"

"Victor is my flatmate – but that's not an issue. I just have to go."

"Well I'm not letting you out of this house until I know that you have a warm flat to go back to." She dropped the pie onto the range and shoved the oven door closed with a bang. "That and some food in your stomach."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "How much is he paying you?"

Oh…_oh!_ So that's what this was all about. "Sherlock – do you really think so little of me that I would allow myself to be charmed and bribed by your slimy politician of an older brother?"

"Given your taste in men, I feel that I have every right to think as such." Sherlock shot back nastily. "He always has to poke his nose in where nobody wants him to. So how much is he paying you?"

"Not a penny, thank you very much." Martha said, feeling rather peevish for the comment about Thomas (which, if truth be told, she should be used to by this point; whenever Sherlock felt threatened he lashed out). "I don't know what you think of me if you believe I can be bribed."

Sherlock stared at her, completely bewildered and still angry. "Then why else are you doing this?"

"What?"

"_This_!" He waved a hand at the kitchen, at their now-cooling lunch, at Thomas' pyjamas. "If Mycroft isn't paying you then why are you doing this?"

Something twisted inside of her. "Oh, Sherlock," She said sadly. "I am doing it because it is the right thing to do."

"Spare me your pity." The lanky genius sneered. "What – did that fat oaf tell you some sob story about the drugs? I assure you I have them under control."

"He did mention your recreational activities, yes." Martha admitted, knowing full well that lying would not help the situation. "But, truth be told, I already knew."

Sherlock was goggling at her, though his lip was still curled in an angry sneer.

"I saw the marks on your arm, Sherlock, and while I can't say that I approve – " He opened his mouth to speak and she firmly held up a hand, " – that's not why I offered you my couch."

"Then _why_?"

"I like you, Sherlock." She saw his completely gobsmacked look and fought down the pity he had so scorned. "You're a smart young man and I've grown fond of you. I couldn't just leave you out in the cold with a cough like that, not decent at all. So I like you and no suit-wearing, brolly-loving fat-Bond is going to tell me what to do about it."

Sherlock was still looking rather like a deer in the headlights, but a reluctant smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took in her description of his (literal) Big Brother. "But he did offer you money." It sounded like he had to be absolutely sure; Martha wasn't surprised – he didn't trust easily, after all, and she wasn't entirely certain that she had made it into that level yet.

"Of course he did!" She said briskly, retrieving some plates for their lunch. "What do you think we got together for; a nice cuppa? Turned him down, of course – if he wants to talk to you he can call himself. Though," here she examined a chipped mug thoughtfully, "maybe I should have taken him up on his offer. This kitchen needs redecorated and we could have come up with bogus information to feed him. How do you feel about cross-dressing?"

He stared at her a moment before a slow smile spread across his face and, much to her surprise and delight, he burst into deep, hysterical giggles that she couldn't help but echo. "Mrs. Hudson – you are wonderful!" He cried, that smile transforming his face into something beautiful and boyish.

"Of course, dear, now off you pop and put away the rest of those cans before our lunch gets cold."


	9. Tick Tock Goes The Clock

.

* * *

The week passed all too fast. Before Martha knew it Thomas was scheduled to be home and she awoke to her last morning with Sherlock…or what would have been her last morning had he not disappeared at some point during the night. Were it anyone other than Sherlock Martha would have been rather angry by the way he had slipped away without even a goodbye or a thank-you, but as it stood she had a feeling he had only been trying to avoid the over-emotional parting that he probably suspected she would subject him to. Silly boy!

And then it was back to normal, everyday life. Thomas was no sooner through the door than he was dropping his luggage into her hands and ordering her to bring him a beer. She heaved a big sigh, already wishing for him to be gone, and set about her work of keeping Thomas content and cleaned up after. Why hadn't she taken the illustrious Mycroft Holmes up on his offer again?

She knew the answer to that one; whatever else you could call her Martha Hudson was no pushover – really she wasn't. She willingly submitted to her husband, yes, but she was in no way cowed. And after enduring some of Thomas' tripe there was no way that she was going to put herself under the thumb of another man with a power-complex; even if said man was the elder brother of a certain young genius she had taken a shine to. Mycroft could bloody well phone his brother himself if he wanted information!

Forever the shining smile and surprised, joyous laughter of Sherlock Holmes would be stamped on her heart. Something had changed between them that day, something that Martha couldn't quite put her finger on. It was as though she had finally passed some sort of final test for him. Though on the surface he was just as rude and sarcastic as ever (it was his modus operandi, really) somehow the vibes that Martha was getting were no longer quite so…would _prickly_ be the word? She remembered that day over a year ago whenever she had bought him lunch and he had rather wickedly teased her with mentions of his rather disgusting interests. Perhaps that had been where it had really started – all the boy wanted was for someone to listen and understand, even if they couldn't follow him.

There was a warm feeling of trust between them and Martha wouldn't throw that away for all of the pounds in England! Besides; she knew mostly how Thomas danced now and made sure to keep as much distance between them as possible, to not engage him in arguments but never let him walk over her, and to not let his bad moods and choices affect her life more than absolutely necessary. He was spending more nights away from Baker Street than he was in and more often than not Martha sought solace on the sofa rather than in her empty bed. She wasn't going to let Thomas Hudson win!

If he asked for a beer, she would get it for him matter-of-factly if she was already in the kitchen. If he wanted the telly remote, she'd tell him where it was and go back to doing the dishes. She wasn't quarrelsome or rude – but she did have her limits and firmly stuck by them.

Bad times came again and the purse strings began to look more and more frayed. Thomas was spending long hours at the office and for once Martha felt that it may not be because he was participating in a quick shag. He would come home tired and irritable, heading straight for shower and booze before toppling into bed and snoring the night away while she tried to make herself comfortable on the couch. He made no mention of the fact that Martha wasn't even sharing a bed with him any more and, while to a point that was a relief, she couldn't help but feel just a bit forlorn and offended that their sleeping arrangements didn't even seem to register with him. He really was self-absorbed and only seemed to pay her any attention whenever he needed someone to rant at.

Apparently, from what she could glean from the vitriol, Christopher (a co-worker) had found out about Thomas' affair with 'Shells' and casually mentioned it to a superior, resulting in Thomas being…not exactly demoted, but removed from favour; a travesty indeed for her appearance-oriented husband.

A small part of her mourned the fact that this loss of favour meant that Thomas would probably not be going on any more company business trips for a while (and then instantly felt guilty for the thought) but, to her everlasting surprise and delight, at the end of three long months Thomas announced that he would be packing his bags and heading out to Switzerland for ten days.

* * *

"Martha – it is _so_ good to see you!" Kathy flung open the door and enveloped Martha in a warm hug that she nearly melted into. "Seems like an age since last we did something like this."

"And look at you, Katherine Bodenhorn," Martha smiled and indicated Kathy's round belly. "You're practically glowing."

She ruthlessly shoved down the little prick of jealousy. This was to be a fun girls' weekend with her sister and she was _not_ going to let Thomas spoil it from across the Channel. Besides, it wasn't as if she wanted children who would have to grow up with Thomas as a father. He hadn't touched her since their honeymoon and Martha found that in her heart of hearts she wasn't exactly mournful of that fact. Still…it was a bit lonesome to look at the pregnant Kathy with her joyous smile and realise that this rosy mother would never be you.

"So, Martha." Kathy was saying. "I thought that maybe we could do take-away and telly tonight and then hit the shops tomorrow. There's a new brand of perfume advertised down at Floris that I'm simply _dying_ to try out and I saw some scarves in a catalogue yesterday that I think would suit you perfectly!"

Martha privately wondered if her narrow spending money savings could handle a shopping splurge such as Kathy was probably envisioning, but smiled. "Sounds wonderful."

"Then come on in, sis. No point in me leaving you standing on my doorstep all evening!" Kathy took Martha's bag and led the way into the warm kitchen. "Steve's taken the kids and gone to his mother's for the weekend so we girls have the house to ourselves." She winked. "I told him that could be dangerous."

"It could indeed, Kathy, especially whenever you're involved." Martha said with a grin, feeling the skin stretch around her mouth and realising with a start that she had not smiled like this in months. When had she become such a depressive grump?

The kettle whistled and Kathy snatched it from the stove. "Mint or regular?" She asked, digging through her box of teacups. "I have some spearmint & vanilla if you're interested. Thought it might be fun to try something new, but I have yet to work up the courage to forgo my daily cuppa of Darjeeling."

"Maybe I'll try some then - no harm in being a bit adventurous. Milk and one sugar, please."

Kathy dutifully poured the tea and added the correct amount of sugar and half & half, handing over the cup with a warning of, "Careful - it's still rather hot."

"Thank you."

Kathy settled herself in a chair and wrapped her hands around her mug, leaning forward to savour a deep breath of the warm, aromatic steam with an appreciative smile. Tea – there really was nothing like it, Martha felt as she took a sip of her own. The mint actually was quite a nice flavour when blended with cream and just the right amount of sugar. She glanced up and saw Kathy grinning at her. "Good, eh?" Younger sister said, "Can't think why I put off trying it for so long." She took another sip and set the mug down, leaning forward in sisterly conspiracy. "So, Martha, what has my bossy older sibling been up to lately? That dishy husband of yours treating you right?"


	10. The Balm Of Sisterly Company

.

* * *

**Previously...**

_Kathy...took another sip and set the mug down, leaning forward in sisterly conspiracy. "So, Martha, what has my bossy older sibling been up to lately? That dishy husband of yours treating you right?"_

* * *

Martha sucked in a sharp breath. Of all the questions to ask – so much for Thomas not haunting this weekend! Time to dissemble and hopefully steer the conversation away. "Oh, we're getting by." She took a fortifying sip of tea. "Thomas is extremely busy with work and all. Some days I scarcely see him between work and bed." There. That should help divert the conversation.

"Everything okay between you two, though?" Kathy said in concern. "You've been sounding so tired and cagey lately that I've been worried."

She was clearly going to have to work harder on her façade. A little part of Martha hated herself for the deception and longed to confide all of the struggles and trials to the sympathetic ear of her sister. But a larger and significantly stronger part of herself argued back that things weren't all that bad – that she shouldn't give up so easily and abandon the vow she had taken. Maybe it was the hopeful child inside that said everything would work out in the end…maybe it was the cynical adult who whispered that Kathy wouldn't believe or understand just what was going on…or maybe it was just Martha's own pride that said she was the elder sister, dammit! And she wasn't going to be the old spinster aunt to Kathy's impending baby, forever looking in on the family sphere but never experiencing it.

"It's just been rather stressful." Martha said, half-truths sitting bitter on her tongue as the logical side of her snarled _'tell her, you stupid woman!' _For some reason that voice always sounded out in a superior baritone…

Giving herself a mental shake, Martha smiled and patted Kathy's hand. "But enough about me; I'm here to catch up with you, not gibber on about Thomas and our little issues. Have you decided on a name for the little guy yet?"

"Well, Steve was wrong about it being a girl." Kathy said with a grin. "Had the ultrasound two days ago and you're definitely going to have a nephew."

"He should know better than to contest a mother's intuition."

"That's what I said – but I'm not sure if he was listening. I'm pretty sure he has plans to raise a pub league champ and that's all there is swirling around in his brain right now."

"Better football than golf," Martha chuckled. "Mine occasionally likes to relax with a bit of pizza whenever The Open Championship is airing. Never did see what he saw in golf of all things."

"Boring!" Kathy declared emphatically. "Give me a good muddy pub match any day! Men and their sports, eh?"

"Indeed."

* * *

"Oh, Martha – you look _lovely_!"

Twisting and turning in front of the three-way mirrors (and frowning at the way the skirt clung to her hips) Martha scrutinised her reflection critically. She was getting old, something that the dressing room lights only highlighted, and maybe cerise just wasn't her colour. Besides – tight waists just weren't flattering anymore.

Kathy grinned. "Oh stop your fussing, Martha. It looks fine!"

"You're very kind…but I think I need a size larger if I plan on sitting down without accident." Tugging at the fabric and noting the way it bagged in all the wrong places (Why was she stuck with a figure that nothing seemed tailored for?) Martha stepped back into the cubicle and, after a brief and terrifying battle with the zipper, removed the dress and returned it to her hanger.

Exiting and hanging up the rejects on the return rack, Martha held out her hands. "Your turn now, Kathy. I'll hold the bags."

This shopping trip was turning out to be a tiring, albeit enjoyable, trial. It had been years since she had splurged like this and suddenly she was only too aware that she had either gained weight or it had all shifted around into a figure that no style of clothing could flatter. She couldn't wait until Kathy tired of clothes and they could move on to the shoe department. Flats and heels are generally more forgiving of your figure than the clothes they were to accessorise were.

"Steve isn't here so I guess I have to ask you the question. Do you think this makes me look fat?"

Martha turned and examined the brilliant pink maternity shirt that Kathy was wearing. The zebra-print trim didn't really appeal to her personal tastes…but then Kathy always had been the more flamboyant out of the two of them and she could pull off things that Martha would never dream of attempting to wear. Some short people could get away with it and some really couldn't. Fortunately, Kathy was one of those people who wore her clothes with confidence and poise. She belonged in the power-dressing circles!

"You look lovely, Kathy." Martha said truthfully. Warm colours always made Kathy's skin positively glow. "Is that to go along with your new nail polish?"

"If I can get it to match. What do you think of these new jeans? I wasn't sure about the cut, but…" She made a half-twirl for Martha's inspection. "They're certainly comfortable."

"Then go for it." She couldn't wait to get out of here and have a chance to sit down. Maybe she should have worn her loafers this morning…

* * *

All good things come to an end, sadly, and almost before she knew it the weekend was over and she was leaving the oasis for the desert. Martha wondered - not for the first time - if this was what her life was to be; brief respites of bliss that made return to the difficult drag of everyday life all the more bitter. But there was no point in pondering this for long; she had a house to air out and a fridge to stock before Thomas came home. First, though, she thought she'd text Sherlock and see how he was doing.

_afternoon Sherlock._

_How's life?_

She waited maybe five minutes before - oh joy! - a reply came through.

_it is perfectly brilant just now mrs hudson_

_in an hourrr or so who nos _

"Well now isn't that odd." She said to herself, blinking in surprise at the sloppily composed text. She had expected that Sherlock Holmes of all people would not deign to text in anything less than complete sentences and picture-perfect punctuation. Guess everyone had to have a weak spot. Young folk these days, really! At least he hadn't used any of those bewildering 'text-speak' phrases like 'IKR?' or 'ROFL!'...what _did_ that mean anyways? She had thought that Rowlf was the dog from the Muppets.

* * *

"Martha, I'm home. Where's dinner?"

Martha jumped as the door slammed open and Thomas tromped into the flat. By the sound of his voice he was already rather tipsy and she stifled the sharp retort that sprang to her lips (she really had been spending too much time in conversation with Sherlock) as she went to greet him and take his coat.

"Dinner should be on the table in a couple of minutes. Why don't you go change into some home clothes?"

"I don't want to change – don't you go bossing me around; I get enough of that at work!"

Oh yes – he was in a right mood tonight! Martha quickly got out of his way as he stalked into the sitting room and took the opportunity to drop his coat off in the bedroom before nipping out to the kitchen and pulling out the lasagne. "Dinner is ready, Thomas." She said, going over to where he was scowling at the telly and drinking yet another beer.

"Well bring it in here, then." He said impatiently. "We ain't in Buckingham Palace!"

He was moving towards drunk all right. Martha scurried to bring in the food (making a mental note to vacuum the sofa cushions tomorrow) and watched as he stared blankly at the news.

"Did you have a bad day at work, Thomas?"

He snarled around a mouthfull of pasta. "When don't I? I lost nearly six-hundred quid on a deal last week and the boss is threatening to take it out of my bonus. Now shut up and let a man think in peace!"

That was that. Martha retreated to the kitchen and ate her own meal. She couldn't wait until the next business trip!

Thomas retired to bed shortly thereafter and Martha resigned herself to a night in a sleeping bag (too much food had been spilled for her to even think about the sofa). She spent a restless night (really - carpet didn't do much to cushion the floorboards) and was up early enough to have a cooked breakfast hot and ready whenever Thomas finally emerged bleary-eyed from his shower. He wordlessly ate and left the house. Martha was not disappointed whenever that night he didn't return. Maybe 'Julie' would put him in a slightly better frame of mind.


	11. 221B Baker Street

.

* * *

"Thomas. Can I tell you something?"

He looked up from his breakfast to where Martha was fastening the tags onto his luggage and frowned. "What is it?"

"Now I don't want you to be cross with me – I'm only doing this to help. We've got some big bills coming up (heating, insurance, and the like) so I want to be prepared."

"For God's sake; out with it, woman! I don't have all day!"

She sat down at the table and toyed with her own toast. "I was thinking, while you're off on this trip, maybe I'll get the other flats all cleaned out and start advertising."

That got his attention. "What?"

"I'm going to offer B and C out for rent. We're cutting it awful close this month, money-wise, and I just think it would be wise to air on the side of – "

"You'll do no such thing!" Thomas snarled, throwing down his napkin irritably. She flinched back in surprise and he got to his feet, tightening his tie and going for his coat. "We're going to be hosting the company Christmas party this year for my team and I don't want them to have to deal with _neighbours_. We're not common little money-grubbers and there's no way I'm going to get a promotion if it looks like we are."

Somehow Martha didn't follow his logic. "But if it can bring in a little bit more money, just to pad the accounts for a while, what is the harm? I would screen anyone very carefully before giving them the keys and I'm sure they would stay out of our way."

"_You_ would screen them?" Thomas sneered as though he had heard a particularly lame pun. "I'm not so sure that would be a good idea, Martha. You're not bright enough."

"Oh I'm not, am I?" He had never directly put her down like that before…and it really hurt to see what he really thought of her. "If I'm really so stupid then I guess you can do your own cooking and cleaning and accounting from here on out because my simple mind won't be able to handle so arduous of tasks." She was aware that she was being snide – but felt little remorse.

"Oh shut up. I'm going to be late for my ride." Thomas looked at the tears welling up in her eyes and rolled his own. "Fine – do whatever you bloody well want to do. But I'll have no part in it. When it all goes wrong don't come crying to me!"

He bustled out of the flat with his baggage and slammed the door shut without even saying goodbye. Martha sat stunned at the kitchen table, wondering how everything had deteriorated so quickly. "I_ will_ rent them out you bloody tosser!" She shouted to the empty room. "See if I don't succeed!"

That is precisely what she did. Martha, never one to back down from a challenge, went out the very next day and purchased a load of cleaning supplies, selected some fresh curtains, and clipped coupons for furniture sales. She set about sprucing up the 221B flat first, given the fact that it was a bit more easily accessible and had a door that was far from her own. It wasn't in terrible condition – if a bit dusty and neglected. She had been up here before, of course. In the long, lonely days during her first year of marriage before she had learned to cope she had taken to wandering the house with her broom and dustpan.

It was hard work – but it gave her something to focus on other than Thomas' crueller-than-usual words. He had been rather cold and unloving for a long time (ever since their honeymoon ended, actually) but he had never lashed out directly at Martha's character and personality in such a brutal manner before. Something had changed between them, she could feel it – somehow she had crossed a line and broken the chilly truce that had existed between them.

So she threw herself into her work, taking great pleasure as each day the walls were a bit cleaner, the lights went into place, and the carpet was installed. It was on a shopping excursion to get some more glass-cleaner (because it worked better on the sink than the sink-cleaner did) Martha met up with none other than Sherlock Holmes himself, studying the different cleaning products with a scrawled list in his hand.

"We really have got to stop meeting like this." Martha quipped as she put the cleaner into her basket. "And haven't you learned your lesson about mixing bleach and ammonia?"

A reluctant smile twitched at his lips. "Perhaps, Mrs. Hudson, though the resulting gas is quite fascinating in chemical make up I must say that I have quite exhausted that particular mixture's potentials."

She smiled in return. "So what have you been doing since I saw you last? You look like you've made a full recovery." A quick sweep of the boy with her eyes had indeed confirmed the fact that he was looking better than she had seen him since her library days.

Of course he caught her examination and rolled his eyes. "I am well, Mrs. Hudson." He said in mild annoyance, selecting a bottle of detergent and reading the label as he spoke. "For God's sake - why are you always on about that?"

"In my job description, love. I can't just switch it off." He huffed slightly, but made no further protest so Martha felt encouraged to make further conversation. "So how is Victor doing?"

"Who?"

"Victor - your flatmate." He looked rather like one of those stuffed owls whenever he stared at her like that. The strange thing was that he looked truthfully and utterly bewildered...had she somehow remembered the name wrong? She had been certain that Sherlock had called his flatmate (the prattish one who had kicked him out into the rain and coincidentally the one she would very much like to kick to Cardiff and back) 'Victor'.

Comprehension dawned on him at last and she reflected that, for a genius, he could be remarkably foolish sometimes. He grimaced and said, "I'm not rooming there anymore...afraid I had quite deleted him. He was a bit touchy about violin concertos. No appreciation for Vieuxtemps or Tartini."

Martha had no idea what in hell any of those names should be attached to (although the latter sounded rather like an obscure brand of pasta) but she smiled sympathetically anyways and observed that he would probably be better off away from that rat-faced arse. He snorted and replied that there was more of a resemblance to a mangy ferret than a fat, ugly rat, but either way he (Victor) was not worth wasting mental space on.

"I daresay." Martha replied. "So let's talk about something else. How are your studies going?"

He gave her a look that made it clear just what he thought of _that_ question. "I am no longer in university, Mrs. Hudson." He said, as if talking to a particularly dull-witted individual. "We did discuss this, I believe."

"Now there's no call to be rude, young man." She scolded lightly. "I remember - I'm not quite senile yet. I meant what you are studying on your own. You are still doing that, correct?"

"I prefer to learn things as I need them, Mrs. Hudson. There is little point in filling up one's head with a glut of pointless trivia that cannot (and should not) be applied to everyday life."

And wasn't that just so Sherlock? Martha felt her phone vibrate in her pocket and grimaced. "Half a second."

Sherlock waited a couple of minutes while Martha read the text from Kathy and painfully pecked out a response. But before long he lost interest and started wandering away down the aisle. "Oi there!" Martha protested. "I'm not done with you yet."

"It is nearly three." Sherlock said. "And you have a carpet to roll before dinner."

Of course he would know that. "Well, in that case I'd better go and get checked out." Martha said. "But I expect to see you at Baker Street tomorrow for some tea. I haven't seen you properly for ages and we need a chance to get all caught up."

She expected him to refuse and so was pleasantly surprised whenever he gave her a half-smile and said, "Until tomorrow then, Mrs. Hudson."

* * *

"Sherlock!" Martha flung the door open and ushered him inside. "Thank you for coming by."

"I had nothing better to do," He said carelessly. "I couldn't start my new experiment until the first of next month (I really can't afford to be kicked out this time) so I figured that I might as well."

She would have been offended if anyone else had said these words. But, as was happening more and more recently, Martha found herself making an exception for a certain lanky genius who probably honestly didn't know how to express himself any differently. She had hopes to change that, of course, but for now the boy needed someone to listen to him without judgement and, judging by his brother and former flatmate, she would have to be that person.

So she sat him down at her table and plied him with tea and sandwiches (which he bolted) while they made small conversation that consisted of her asking questions and him rambling on. It was nice and domestic to sit here chatting amicably and Martha eventually called Sherlock upstairs to help her hang some curtains ("I have to take advantage of your height, dear.") which he did with only a token bit of grumbling.

"There - just a bit more on the left."

Sherlock snarled and roughly shoved the curtains over. He looked rather pathetic standing there smothered in the fabric and with his hands stretched up over his head. Martha almost felt sorry for having to correct him. Almost.

"No, Sherlock. That was too far. Be gentle; if you tear them we have to start all over again."

"Oh for God's sake!" Sherlock's teeth were audibly grinding, but with forced calm he shifted his grip and twitched the fabric back to the right until it settled into place.

Martha shook her head. "Very good, Sherlock." She said approvingly as he jumped down and straightened his jacket like a disgruntled cat. "Now we can do the sitting room."

There was a groan where she could have sworn he was saying something along the lines of "Tormentor, should have seen this coming." She hid a smile and enlisted his help in mending the wallpaper (his eyes were better suited to matching the pattern edges than hers) and whipped up some hot cocoa as payment for his pains. He had saved her a lot of trouble by helping out. Were it not for him she would have had to contend with Abigail Turner's rickety stepladder or spend another eight pounds fifty on a ladder that she would probably never use again. Besides - it was just nice to have his company; snark, moans, and all.


	12. A Brief Respite

.

* * *

"Martha!" Thomas burst into the house with a smile and kissed her full on the lips, twirling them round and round as if they were dancing.

She pulled back in his arms and spluttered. "Thomas Hudson - what's got into you?"

"Can't a man come home to his wife with a kiss?"

"Do you still think of me as your wife?"

He looked slightly put out. "Of course I do, Martha! Things have just been so stressful lately." He brushed by her and sank into the armchair with a contented sigh. "But our prospects are taking a turn for the better and it looks to be smooth sailing from here on out."

"Oh?" Martha took a seat on the arm of the sofa and watched him closely, wondering if he had been dabbling in something harder than alcohol.

"Yes. Our ship is finally coming in. What say you, wife, shall we go out tonight?"

"Well, I – " Something like foolish hope swelled in Martha's heart. These last few years had been so hard, but she had persevered and maybe someone in Heaven now saw fit to reward her for coming through the trials. She could enjoy this night while it lasted, at least. "Where did you have in mind?"

Thomas smiled and heaved himself out of the chair. "Get your coat, Martha. I'll see about a cab."

* * *

"Thank you, Thomas, I haven't been to that coffee shop in years."

"It seemed appropriate. Besides, you won't find a place in London that makes a better Irish Coffee Expresso."

Martha smiled to herself and leaned against the cab window, watching the lights of the darkened London as they flashed by. It had been nice to go out for a pleasant evening on the town, to see the return of the Thomas she had agreed to marry, and to spend the evening in the comfortable matrimonial companionship she had so craved. It was a warm feeling - so far removed from the tense and uncertain atmosphere which usually pervaded the house whenever Thomas was home - and she was thrilled to find that it lasted for the rest of the evening. Maybe their severed relationship was healing at last. Martha dropped into bed that night and fell asleep content for truly the first time since her honeymoon. Sherlock appeared to be clean last time she saw him, Kathy's son had said his first word (auntsy), and now Thomas was looking at her with something other than cool, disinterested disdain. Things were finally looking up!

When she awoke the next morning, Thomas was gone from the bed. But Martha could smell the coffee brewing in the kitchen and so got up and pulled on a dressing gown over her nightie to go investigate.

"Morning." She said to Thomas who was sitting at the table and eating some toast that was practically dripping with microwave-melted butter. "How did you sleep?"

"Fairly well." He took a sip of his drink.

"Is that coffee?"

"Mmmhmm...there is a bit left." He was glued to the newspaper (some article about one of those young singers who seemed to feel that art involved wearing as little as possible) and waved a hand absently towards the coffeepot. Martha set about pouring herself a mug and making a slice of toast (which she smeared with Nutella, thank you very much) before sitting down opposite her husband and wondering if the goodness of last night had been but the calm before the storm.

"So. You're headed off to work today, I expect."

Thomas glanced at her before turning back to his newspaper. "Yes - after lunch. I actually have the morning off before the recap meetings at one."

Martha blinked - surprised that he was electing to spend his time off here (he certainly looked too content to move) and tentatively asked, "What are your plans for the morning, then?"

"Oh - probably laze about the house for a couple of hours. Might try to meet a few mates down at the pub before heading in." There was a rustle as he turned the pages of his paper. "I don't plan on doing anything too strenuous, though. It was a long trip."

It seemed as though that long trip had been profitable and the deals had all gone through for suddenly things were not quite so tight and the money was...not exactly flowing freely, but Martha didn't feel as though she had to carefully budget the butter sticks any more. In part this could be because Thomas had cut his drinking down by more than half - but a look at the accounts proved that he was bringing in more with each paycheck and Martha breathed a deep sigh of relief every time that she was out and remembered that she no longer had to be quite so tight-fisted around her pennies.

Things were looking up with her marriage too. While Thomas still occasionally was home late from work or sporting a suspicious hair snagged on his collar button - for the most part things seemed to be going fine. He hadn't seem to feel the need for a night away from Baker Street since his return from the States and Martha no longer felt as though she had to carefully skirt his moods. The passion and camaraderie of their pre-marriage relationship was not there (and, if she was honest, she didn't think it could ever be fully repaired after all of this bad history together) but at least they were no longer at hostile odds. She made no further mention of renting out the other flats, though a bit of the improved income did go towards keeping them spick, span, and tidy.

It was strange, though, the way the income seemed to fluctuate from month to month. Martha thought little of it until the third time in a row where she was balancing her chequebook and discovered that there was a sum of some five hundred quid that had come from seemingly nowhere. Upon quizzing her husband (who was slightly twitchy and very off-hand about it...though nothing beyond the usual) she received only the answer "My deal went through. That's part of the new deal; commissions and such." which sounded sincere enough so she let it go. Who was she to look a gift-horse in the mouth? If this new deal was padding their bank account _and_ keeping Thomas content and sober she wasn't about to complain!

* * *

"I'll get it, Thomas!" Martha called as she went for the phone which was ringing shrilly. "Hello?"

"This is the residence of one Thomas M. Hudson, I take it?" The voice was quiet and rather oily.

"Yes it is. To whom am I speaking?"

Thomas appeared at her elbow and snatched the phone. "Give me that." He said in a hushed voice, clamping one hand over the mouthpiece anxiously. "I'll take care of this, Martha love. You can go back to your dusting."

Now she _knew_ something was going on! Thomas only used pet endearments whenever he was being condescending or trying to get rid of her quickly. "Who is it?"

"Just - just a coworker. Nothing to worry about. Now if you don't mind." He gave her a pointed look and lifted the receiver to his ear. "Hello." There seemed to be a slight sheen of sweat forming on his brow.

Martha took up her dust rag and went back to cleaning the television set's very linty screen, keeping one ear on the hushed conversation Thomas was having with his business associate. It was nothing particularly interesting...something about stocks and opportunities was the most she could catch, thanks to his secretive manner, though he seemed to grow more and more unsettled as the conversation progressed. Thomas always was rather jumpy and obssessed with appearances, though, so she paid little mind to his nervous ticks. Life was life, after all, and if you tried to poke your nose into anything sooner or later you would disturb a hornet's nest that would otherwise have had little to do with you.

"...fine, fine. I'll see when I can arrange a trip." Thomas hung up the phone and stood there staring at it like it was a bomb about to go off. He looked quite uptight and Martha wondered if the bosses were putting pressure on him again.

"Bad news?" She asked, swiping the dustcloth over the windowsill. He didn't answer her but slowly walked into the sitting room, looking unusually pale and anxious. "Thomas - what is it?"

"Quiet, Martha. It's no concern of yours."

"Did something bad happen at work?"

"I said shut it! I'm trying to think." Thomas sank into the armchair and ran a shaky hand through his hair, blowing out a couple of gusty breaths.

"What's wrong?" She came over and stood next to his chair worriedly.

"For the love of God, woman!" He snarled, glaring up at her. "Will you stop nagging and let me think for one moment?" Glancing at the hurt look on her face, Thomas groaned and got to his feet with a jerk, stalking into the entryway and leaving the building without even grabbing a jacket. The door slammed behind him with a resounding, final boom that echoed through the empty flats and Martha's heart. She should have seen this coming as soon as the mysterious phone call came through (What _had _that been all about?) - but despite the familiarity of it all Thomas' short-tempered outburst still stung horribly.

Thomas did not return until late that night when a harried cabbie knocked on Martha's door to deliver her morose and completely plastered husband. Martha's spirits sank as she helped him stumble and grope his way into the bedroom. Not only did he call her by at least three different female names (none of them her own) but she could see that Thomas was going to be running back to his one source of comfort; the bottle. She wished they had never answered that phone.


	13. Whispers of Darkness

.

* * *

.

* * *

"Martha, I'm leaving tomorrow for America." Thomas said one night after dinner as she was doing the washing up. "And I need to leave early too – preferably before six."

"Another business trip?" Martha scrubbed at a crusty section of pan and reflected that she was in need of a new brush.

Thomas shifted in his chair. "Something like that, yeah." He said shortly. "Just have my breakfast ready to go by half past five, got it?"

She nodded with a sigh. "You'll have to do up your own luggage, then. I'll be up late enough with this cleaning as it is."

"Fine." He heaved himself to his feet and shuffled towards the bedroom, presumably to pack. Martha applied herself to her dishes, wondering what she could whip up real quickly in the morning. She wasn't surprised by this trip (in the past three days two more calls had come in from America and Thomas had been making motions to leave ever since the first one) but it was inconvenient that he felt he had to leave so ridiculously early. Martha Hudson was not a morning person.

"Martha! Where did you put my socks?" Thomas yelled from the bedroom.

"In the top drawer where you always keep your socks!"

There was the sound of frantic searching from the bedroom where Martha sighed, thinking of the mess he was undoubtedly making. "There's nothing there but white ones!" Thomas called out.

"Well then check in the dryer. I didn't have time to finish everything today!"

He swore rather colourfully and banged down the hallway to the laundry room. Martha rolled her eyes. _This_ was why she usually took care of his packing – not because he expected her to, but because she wanted to avoid the massacre of tidiness that he left behind him. A woman has to draw the line somewhere!

She got as much done as was humanly possible that night and dropped into bed shortly after ten (getting up was going to be hell tomorrow...but at least there wouldn't be a backlog).

It was a relief whenever Thomas finally left in his cab the next morning. The minutes leading up to his actual leave-taking were always stressful as they scrambled (well, she scrambled with him looking on critically) to make sure everything was packed and ready to go. She could probably just leave him to fend for himself but...she wasn't that mean. Besides - it gave her something to do other than stand around awkwardly and try to ignore his avoidance of giving her a goodbye kiss. But at last he was gone and she sank onto the sofa, debating whether she should turn on the telly or try to go back to bed and sleep a bit.

She went with the bed. The sofa was still a bit...soiled after Thomas' last drunken stupour (it had actually gotten worse ever since that bloody phone call) and she had yet to clean it properly. Maybe she could use that accident (which he refused to acknowledge) as an excuse to invest in a new piece of furniture. Goodness knows it was probably time...

* * *

The hour was late whenever it happened. Martha was standing in the bedroom trying to fix up the mess Thomas had made of the drawers when she heard a scraping sound from the bathroom - almost as if the window was being forcibly opened from the outside. Heart in her mouth and lamp clutched in her hand, Martha crept down the hallway, intent on bludgeoning anyone who was attempting to burglar _her_ house! She had enough problems already, would it be too much to ask for a quiet evening in return?

Carefully edging the door open and advancing on the dark figure who was attempting to close the window, Martha raised her weapon and pulled her arm back to deliver the hardest strike she was capable of...

"Oi!" The figure whined in a deep voice, catching hold of the lamp in protest. "Mrs. Hudson! What on earth?"

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!" Martha snaked out an arm and grabbed the ridiculous young man's collar, frog-marching him into the better light of the sitting room and shoving him towards the armchair. "What on earth were _you_ doing? You nearly gave me a heart-attack!"

He snorted and tried to fix his collar. "Hardly likely, taking into account your age, weight, and typical diet."

"Oh you shut up!" She clipped his ear, ignoring the resultant indignant squawk. "What were you doing climbing through my window at this hour of the night?" It was well past 10:30. Sherlock shrugged, deliberately nonchalant, and lounged back in the chair. She frowned as he drew his knees up to his chest and hoped that there wasn't any mud on his shoes. "Well?"

"Landlord kicked me out again." Sherlock said casually.

Not again! "What happened this time?"

He shrugged. "I was late on the rent. New place, tougher rules. I can have the money by tomorrow night - but I can't get back into my flat until I pay up. Fortunately I haven't been wholly evicted yet as I'm not sure my microscope can take another rough packaging."

Oh..._oh_. "So what you're saying is that you need a place to stay?"

Sherlock really looked surprisingly vulnerable as he peeped up at her almost shyly through his curly fringe. "I suppose I am, yes."

"Well then." Martha plopped the lamp down on the telly and turned to go back into the bedroom. "I take it you'll be needing to borrow some nightclothes, then." She smiled privately at the way he perked up and hopped out of the chair to follow her. "I would offer my couch, but - " She indicated the rather ugly stain left over from a particularly unpleasant night and grimaced, "Well, I'm quite certain you can deduce what happened."

He ran a cursory glance over the piece of upholstery and returned her grimace. "Believe me, I can. There's no point in my saying you should leave, is there?"

"No I'm afraid there isn't, dear." Martha dug into the drawer and retrieved the pair of pyjamas he had worn last time. Maybe, if this was going to be a regular thing, she should invest in a pair just for him? A pair that wouldn't swallow him whole, at least. "It really isn't all that terrible. We're coping."

A snort told her just what he thought of that statement. "All right, fine - _I'm_ coping." She amended, passing over the striped pyjamas. "But I've made my bed, Sherlock, and now I have to lay in it. No changing the past." There was another snort where it sounded distinctly as though he were muttering about 'outdated sentimental hogwash', but she took no notice - shoving him towards the bathroom with instructions to get himself changed while she heated up a little bedtime snack.

It was over the warm milk and honey (a staple from her younger days) that Sherlock finally broached the subject of where _would_ he be sleeping.

"And here I thought you would have that all figure out." Martha teased lightly, chuckling as he automatically bristled before deciding to ignore that comment with much dignity. "You have two options - I can dig out the old lilo I think is still in our closet somewhere and we can use the hairdryer to inflate it or, if you don't mind a bit of housekeeping, I can put you up in the 221B bedroom for the night. It's clean and ready - all the bed needs is fresh sheets and a blanket."

"Seeing as how you forced me to participate in your renovation and 'housekeeping' last time I was here, I think I should take advantage of the second option." Sherlock was seemingly oblivious to the rather fine milk moustache he was currently sporting.

"Well then - I'll get you the sheets and we can get started." Martha dropped her mug into the sink and headed for the hall closet. "The heat isn't running up there, but if you let the door open enough should come up from down here that you should stay warm enough with a few thick covers. If you get cold, feel free to borrow the electric heater from the bathroom."

He took the armful of bedding and smiled flatly. "I'll be fine. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

Whether he needed the heater or not, Martha would never know for when she awoke the next morning Sherlock was gone. The only signs that he had been there at all was the displaced lamp, the pile of used bedding, and the fact that every single film on her shelf had been rearranged and categorised alphabetically by title and producer. "Oh that boy." She said with a shake of her head. "Sometimes..."

* * *

"Martha - you need to find us at least one tenant. Get on it right away."

"Hello to you too." Martha grumbled, holding the phone in place with her jaw as she tried to finish her breakfast dishes. "I thought you didn't want me to rent out the flats."

"So I changed my mind." Thomas was sounding quite stressed and Martha wondered if he should get his blood pressure checked. "I've emailed a tenure agreement form to myself so get over to Sally Turner's place and use her computer to print it off. The email address is thgolfer and the password is malcom."

"What's happened, Thomas?"

"Never you mind...nothing. Just get those tenants!"

With that he slammed down the phone, making Martha wince as the sharp dialtone pierced her eardrums. Well that was rude! And strange...why had he changed his mind so suddenly? What was going on over there in America?


	14. Suspicions & Settlements

.

* * *

"I need a cuppa." Martha sat back at the table and rubbed her eyes wearily. Per Thomas' instruction she had spent the past few weeks diligently advertising the flats and showing potential tenants around the house. Many of them seemed to take a shine to 221B at once, some seemed willing to put up with the damp in 221C in favour of the prime location, but all were less than impressed by the written agreement Thomas had since tweaked and often (after a meeting with the man himself) seemed to find accommodation elsewhere. Thomas was becoming more and more impatient. She needed to do something soon.

Thomas would be home from work soon and she dreaded what he would say whenever he found out that the latest prospective tenants (a couple of posh young students) decided that they didn't need the flat after all.

A month passed, then another, and another. It seemed as though Thomas was rarely home any more, preferring to spend his time 'at the office' or on a business trip, usually to America. Martha was relieved whenever he was gone. When you have a problem like Thomas Hudson ignoring it usually seems to be the best route to take...and Thomas was easiest to ignore whenever he was not on the premise or out cold. She felt the pressure to find some tenants and find them soon; maybe having people living upstairs would help to curb the worst habits from her husband (the shouting of abuse, for instance) due to his obsession with appearances.

* * *

"Mr. Doughtey, pleasure to meet you." Martha shook the man's hand warmly and indicated the sofa. "Please - have a seat."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Alan Doughtey followed her instructions, thanking her quietly for the offer of tea. "It is so wonderful to be able to consider a flat like this - especially with someone so hospitable as yourself for a landlady."

She smiled. Was he ever a flatterer! "Why thank you, Mr. Doughtey. As soon as we have some tea I'll take you on the grand tour of the place."

"Sounds wonderful." He smiled and they applied themselves to their Twinings.

Alan seemed to take a shine to the 221B flat immediately (Martha sighed - of _course_ he wouldn't go for the dampness of 221C!) and spent quite a bit of time going over terms and agreements and other things that Thomas probably understood better than she did. Martha could only hope that she was doing this right.

"So when will you and your wife be moving in?"

He stilled and winced almost imperceptibly, giving her a tight smile. "My _daughter_." He said quietly. "Felicia shouldn't be any trouble. She's a good girl - plays the guitar."

Martha held back the urge to pat him on the arm (barriers and all that) and merely smiled sympathetically. "I'm sure she won't be any trouble. It'll be nice to get some young blood in this neighbourhood."

Alan left soon after that, having signed all the papers and said that he planned to move in next Friday. Martha made a private plan to have some baking done to welcome them and made discreet inquiries as to the tastes and preferences of her new tenants. She eventually decided on some lemon squares because they were quick to make, easy to store, and always a hit at parties. She showed Alan to the door and wished him well, going back into 221A and getting the tea things clean before Thomas got home.

She needn't have worried; Thomas was exceedingly late and stumbled through the door well past supper time, heading for the television remote without even grunting a 'hello' in her general direction. Well, Martha huffed and slammed some tinfoil over the plate of lasagne that she had kept back for him. He could jolly well get his own food if he was going to be this way! She washed her hands of the grumpy man.

An hour later, though, her resolve had weakened some. It was discouraging to stare at the silent back of someone's head as they, in turn, stared blankly at a droning television screen. Martha didn't consider herself to be a weak-willed person, by any means (she wouldn't have survived as long as she had if she were) but even a stone statue would be moved to bored tears by the tense, uncomfortable silence that pervaded the atmosphere of the flat this evening. What was his deal?

Martha cleared her throat and perched on the side of the armchair, speaking tentatively. "Thomas?"

He ignored her, so she tried again.

"Thomas?"

"What d'you want?" He slurred, kneading his forehead wearily. "Can't I have a damn moment's peace around here?"

He had already had more than a moment, thank you very much, so she kept on talking. "Did I mention that we have a tenant?"

"Oh really?" Sneering, sarcasm was practically dripping from that one (though she had to say that he couldn't pull it off half so well as her Sherlock could…) but Martha went on. Maybe the good news would help to cheer him up; he had been so anxious about it for some reason she had yet to divine.

"Yes really."

"Hmmm…that's nice." He didn't even give her the attention of sarcasm this time, turning back to the droning commercials with an air of disinterest. How annoying!

"His name is Alan Doughty – that youngish artist fellow who phoned last week, remember?"

"Not really." He sounded like he just wanted her to go away. Well - two could play at this contrary game!

"Everything is signed and closed. He and his daughter are going to move in next Friday."

Thomas' head snapped up and he stared at her. "What did you say?" He demanded, sitting bolt upright and leaning forward urgently. "Next Thursday?"

"Next _Friday._" Martha corrected. "Why? What's happening Thursday?"

"It's our month to host the dinner and drinkies, Martha." Thomas snapped. "We've been putting it off long enough; time to do our duty."

"And you didn't tell me this, why?" Martha was now feeling quite peevish herself. "I'll need time to get ready, you know that."

Thomas snorted rudely and got to his feet. "So get to it!" He snapped and stalked into the bedroom, slamming the door with a bang.

Ooo sometimes she just wanted to slap him! Why didn't the lazy sod tell her before now? Clearly he had known for some time. Did he just expect her to pull the model hostess food and graces out of thin air?

And then to insinuate that _she _was the lazy or neglectful one…if she wasn't unwilling to begin a cycle of physical assault she really might give him a good one. She put up with a lot of crap from Thomas Hudson – but sometimes even she ran out of patience. He was so ancy and unpredictable that sometimes she feared he may be dabbling in some 'comfort' stronger than vodka. But now, having both known someone who was known to occasionally indulge in recreational drugs and doing some research of her own one night when Thomas was sleeping (and unwittingly discovering his unsavoury download history in the process) Martha could say with little doubt that she had no real fear of his falling into that addiction. He wasn't losing weight, suffering from excessive nosebleeds, or falling into withdrawal-induced depression. Granted she didn't see him often nor could she account for what he did on his 'business trips', but all evidence she had seen supported her assessment. He was jumpy and paranoid, yes, but no more than what stress would drive his normal level to. She had been watching and - whatever else you could say about her - Martha Hudson wasn't stupid.

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Good God, Sherlock, what happened to you? You sound awful!"

"How very astute." He coughed once, cleared his throat, and spoke again. "I fear that I shall need to prevail upon your…er, convenience again." She could practically see him fiddling uncomfortably with his collar. The silly boy always did get more pompous and old-fashioned whenever he felt uncomfortable.

"What do you need me for?"

"I find myself in a position of incarceration once more."

"Good God, Sherlock, not again!" She sighed and reached for her coat. "Let me guess; you want me to come and bail you out again?"

"If you wouldn't mind." As always he sounded rather stiff. Oddly enough he never had problems asking (demanding) things at other times. Was it just because he wasn't the one in control here?

"I'm coming down." Martha said, putting on a pair of shoes. "But we're going to have a talk, young man."

He hung up on her with a moody snort and she shook her head. She was going to have some serious words with that boy as soon as she got her hands on him!


	15. Tough Love

.

* * *

"Sherlock, we have to stop doing this." Martha said as she hailed a cab. "You're going to get yourself into real trouble one of these days and then I _won't_ be able to just bail you out."

"It wasn't my fault." He said sulkily, crossing his arms and scowling like a child.

"Oh? Then what were you doing that the coppers felt they had to pick you up_...again?" _He mumbled something and kicked the back of the cabbie's seat. "I'm sorry – I couldn't hear that, Sherlock." Martha scolded. "What did you say?"

"I said that the entire Scotland Yard force is made up of unobservant, unjustifiably narcissist morons who are both unwilling to accept the help of those more qualified than themselves or to take criticism where it is due."

He was in a snit, all right. "So you mouthed off to them?"

"They had it coming."

"And I suppose you were perfectly innocent, then."

Sherlock snorted in derision and took to staring resolutely out of the window, giving Martha an opportunity to study him without receiving a sneer in immediate response.

He looked truly awful – eyes dull and red rimmed, face pale and washed-out, hair long and rather unkempt. Everything about him just screamed out 'neglect' and ill health. He had lost weight, yet again, and was shaking slightly – fingers twitching towards his cuffs and itching at his arm.

Martha knew what that meant, much as she would like to deny it. She couldn't consider herself an expert at diagnosing others by any means - but neither was she completely unknowledgeable. _Oh, Sherlock - you silly fool._ "So what have you been doing lately? It's been ages since our last chat."

"Five months, give or take a few days, Mrs. Hudson. Hardly 'ages'."

"Well it seems that way to me. I'm cooped up all alone day after day - you don't even answer my text messages! I'm paying for those, you know." The boy snorted again and (from what she could see in his reflection) rolled his eyes. Typical. "So I want to get all caught up. What have you been up to? Done any interesting experiments recently?"

"None that you would care to know about." Sherlock said darkly – a statement that was loaded with meaning, given what she knew about his recreational activities. It was such a shame! If only that Mycroft Holmes (the elder brother who would give George Orwell the creeps) would get out of his luxurious cars and mobster-channelling hideaways and do some good for his little brother instead of just observing passively from a distance and bribing other people to do his legwork for him!

"Ah." Martha said, wondering how to broach the elephant in the cab without making him flare up or bolt. They might have established a rapport between themselves – but he was still Sherlock, jumpy as a newborn faun and twice as prickly as a hedgehog. Though his rather unpleasant smile just now looked rather more like a stalking shark than something more fluffy and cuddle-able.

"There was, however, a fairly fantastic double homicide committed a couple of streets over from me." He heaved a deep sigh and ran a finger down the window, smile disappearing. "Of course I was banned from the scene…but it looks to be slightly more imaginative than what half of the idiots who blunder about this city could dream up."

Martha shivered slightly. It was not a pleasant thing to think of her Sherlock living in such close quarters with murderers, rapists, and the scum that eventually pervades all human societies. "What happened?"

He shrugged, "Everyday, commonplace passion crime – though that is not what those imbeciles in the Met are going to tell the press. Someone found their girlfriend sleeping with another man and so killed them both and dumped their bodies into a skip. What makes it interesting is the murder weapon used – they were both carved up with a six-inch filleting knife such as one sees used in a professional kitchen. I could probably tell you where it came from, but they kicked me off of the crime scene before I could get more than a cursory look."

"That's when you started mouthing off to them, then."

Sherlock turned to give her an annoyed look. "I only told them the truth. If they can't handle it – then they shouldn't allow it to be so."

The cab rolled to a stop and Martha opened her door. "We're here. Come on in for some tea." She said, paying the cabbie who looked only too happy to see them go. (Little wonder, after the conversation they had just had!) Sherlock, looking the obligatory amount of reluctant, slid over and followed Martha out of the cab and into 221 Baker Street.

* * *

"Here you are." Martha set a mug of tea down in front of Sherlock and pushed some lemon squares onto a small plate. He immediately took three. They ate and drank in relative silence for a while, Martha privately hoping that the cliché of tea fixing everything would ring true today. Someone had to address Sherlock's issues (both the drugs and the need for bail) and if she knew him like she thought she did, things could get ugly. But if Mycroft bloody Holmes wasn't going to do it then she would just have to step up to the line. She cared too much about Sherlock to let him go on ruining himself like this.

"So - those experiments you mentioned." She figured this was probably as good a way as any to lead into the conversation. "I find myself intrigued. What are you doing?"

"I said: nothing you would be interested in." Sherlock suddenly became very absorbed in his napkin full of crumbs.

"And I'm saying that I am interested...but if you don't want to tell me I can make a stab at guessing."

"Please don't trouble yourself." He muttered, sounding sullen, but Martha pressed on.

"I think you have been experimenting with something a bit more potent than bleach again. Am I right?" She was favoured with an annoyed glare (Really - did he have only two settings: coolly disdainful or offended bristling?) but he made no answer. "Sherlock. We need to talk."

"About what?" He sounded impatient now.

She had begun, there was no turning back. "About your 'recreational' activities. I understand that life can get frustrating sometimes, believe me I do, but snorting your life away on synthetic - "

"I'm not." Sherlock cut in and she looked at him in confusion. Surely he wasn't going to try and deny it!

"What?"

"I'm not snorting. Please - I have more sense than that. I inject."

"Yes, because that is so much better." Martha couldn't keep a bit of a scoff out of her voice. Splitting hairs didn't make the overall snarl any less troublesome. "I didn't say anything before because I assumed you were beating it and I didn't want to call up old cravings." She ignored Sherlock's mumble of_ "Well - that's what happens when people assume."_ and went on. "But now I see that I was wrong to keep quiet. You've got to stop, Sherlock. This isn't good for you."

He rolled his eyes and swirled the dregs of his tea about in the mug. "Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Hudson. Is there anything else you would care to deliver a thesis statement on before I go?"

"Don't you brush me off, Sherlock Holmes!" Martha said sternly. "This is important and I will not be brushed off like one of those coppers you insult for kicks."

"It's not for kicks - if it was I would spend more time being bored than I already do."

"And don't change the subject. We weren't talking about whether or not Scotland Yard is really as incompetent as you in all of your infinite wisdom claims they are, but we were talking about your addiction."

"It's not an addiction!" He protested hotly. "I've got it under control. I know what I'm doing, I'm not an idiot."

"Spoken like a true addict." In for a penny, in for a pound. "And even if it isn't now, clearly it is well on its way to becoming one. You are better than this, Sherlock!"

He frowned. "Now you just sound like Mycroft."

Now it was her turn to glare. "I am neither tall or ginger, Sherlock. And I would like to think that I am not pudgy or surgically attached to a brolly - but that is not the point of this discussion. Stop trying to weasel out of it by distracting me; it won't work." She got to her feet and took the dishes over to the sink. "Don't you know that injecting cocaine is dangerous (not to mention illegal)? What if you catch AIDS or some similar nasty disease?"

"I won't. I tell you - I'm not an addict lolling around in a drug den. Don't worry about it; I always distil the product and use my own sterilised needles."

She whisked up Sherlock's mug and dumped the now cold and vile dregs down the drain. "The fact that you have sterilised needles at the ready only proves to me that you have an issue, Sherlock. Drugs are _dangerous._ They could ruin your life or even leave you dead!"

"I'm not such a fool that I'm going to overdose, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock said dismissively, though a muscle in his jaw was twitching. "I'm not an addict. I just use them to relax."

"Even 'casual recreational' users can accidentally overdose, Sherlock. I'm sure no one means to until its too late." She started rinsing the mugs. "Why do you use them anyway? You're a genius!"

"Okay, fine! You want to know why?" Sherlock snapped suddenly - all fire and rage and whirlwind for the moment. "I use them because I get bored. There - that's the official psychiatric diagnosis for you right there. I. Get. Bored!"

Martha frowned and put one hand on her hip. "But what about your other experiments?"

He threw himself back in his chair with passion. "To hell with them! They don't help. I need puzzles to solve - puzzles that actually present some sort of CHALLENGE!" His voice had risen throughout the rant until he was nearly shouting.

Martha wasn't cowed. She had dealt with Thomas Hudson in a drunken rage. At least with Sherlock she was quite sure that, for all he might snark and lash out verbally, he wouldn't actually hurt her. The cruel words that might pour wittily and relentlessly from his mouth wouldn't even necessarily be completely personal. When you are a young genius whose only form of self-defence is an attack where you must pre-emptively strike, you tend to be a bit sharp with everyone. "I thought you were doing very well for a while there. You certainly were perfectly happy with your varied bleach experiments. What changed?"

"Nothing. My mind needs constant stimulation and mixing together substances that will always react the same way is not enough. I need something new, something undiscovered, something I can actually find. Chemistry unbalanced by excitement is tedious. Besides; my landlord will kick me out if there is one more mishap. So my mind festers, consuming itself in its boredom."

"And you think the drugs help?"

"They _do _help. They help me to focus; slow my mind and the world to the same pace so that they are two athletes running abreast. I need them to help me think. They are a help."

"Well I hate to tell you this, Sherlock Holmes, but they _aren't_ a help."

He sat up. "Now hang on!"

"No - _you _hang on." Martha put the last mug into the dish-rack and turned back around to confront her boy with arms firmly crossed. "You may think that whatever poison you've decided to inject yourself with is helping you to think, but I can see from a glance at you that it is really more of a hindrance than a help."

"Oh indeed?" Sherlock was sneering, challenging anger in his eyes. "And from whence cometh this professional deduction?"

"I've worked in a school for years and have been observing people since before you were born. So pipe down and listen up. You're clearly not sleeping properly, you haven't been outside in ages - judging by your state of grooming and the bulb-white of your skin, and you've lost _at least_ a stone and a half since last I saw you. I don't need a medical degree to know that it is a pretty safe diagnosis to say that your 'casual recreational' use of 'focusing aids' is quickly spiralling towards addiction. If I checked your arm right now, how many track marks would I find?"

"That's none of your business!" He jerked to his feet and slapped the tabletop. Clearly she had struck a nerve. "You don't know what it's like - you don't know anything. Shut up!"

"I only tell you the truth. If you can't handle it – then you shouldn't allow it to be so."

His face froze in surprise. Very slowly and controlled (in some sort of wild mockery of his brother's icy manner – maybe it was a familial under-stress thing that they all pulled out as a shield) he said, "Plagiarism doesn't become you, Mrs. Hudson."

"And denial doesn't become _you_." Martha countered. "Doing the old 'shoot the messenger' routine doesn't help prove your point any…it merely stands to affirm mine."

"I didn't ask you to poke your nose into my business." He was scratching at his left arm in agitation now, something Martha felt compelled to point out. "Oh - I see you've done your research." The boy snarled, yanking his hand away and curling the fingers into a fist by his side. "Been browsing the Internet for barely-literate websites on druggies, have we?"

"You bet I have." Martha wasn't going to back down. "I have done plenty of research on many extremely literate sites, not to mention what I learned from my school librarian days, and I do it because I worry about you."

He scoffed. "Don't bother."

With that, he turned and stalked out of the room (nearly overturning a chair in his hurry) and walked straight out of the flat without once looking back. She heard the front door slam and slid down the side of the counter with a boneless sigh. "Well - that could have gone a lot worse." She murmered sadly to herself. "I just hope he doesn't do anything rash."

With that fear burning in the front of her mind, Martha groped for her phone and carefully composed a text.

_Sherlock_

_Im sorry we quarrelled_

_but Im not sorry 4 what I said_

_I do love u & so I worry_

She received no replies for hours (during which period her mind conjured up all sorts of horrifying images/scenarios and tried to convince her that she had driven him away forever) but just before she was about to get into bed her phone buzzed with an incoming message.

_Have a good night, Mrs. Hudson_

_Do tell your husband to stop flirting with his secretary._

_She's his superior's fiancée._

"Oh Sherlock." Martha murmured. "Oh you brilliant, maddening boy - _please_ get yourself some help!"

* * *

**Author's Note:** It should be said here that I am no expert when it comes to drugs, withdrawal-symptoms, or medical issues. I did do some research, but nothing portrayed in this fic should be taken as gospel. That being said; I hope you enjoyed it. Until next time!


	16. Hudson's Hotel For The Homeless

.

* * *

A month and a half passed. Martha made a point to text Sherlock regularly at intervals, just to check up on him. Sometimes the answers were his usual - rather formal, rarely personal, and always written out like a proper letter. But other times they were so riddled with spelling errors and odd repeated letters (so uncharacteristic of the snobbish Sherlock) that Martha knew he was almost certainly indulging himself in his toxic false ecstasy. How she worried! It was comforting, somewhat, to note that the times of extreme incoherency were rare and far between...but the fact that they were happening at all was uneasy to her mind.

It was one night, late in September, that a scraping noise from the bathroom sounded out through the empty flat, making Martha look up from her chequebook balancing in anticipation. Sure enough, in just a couple of minutes (after a bang and a muffled yelp) a rather damp and dishevelled Sherlock Holmes appeared in the kitchen, rubbing his head.

"Damn window sill." He mumbled.

"And a good evening to you too, Sherlock." Martha said, marking in the most recent deposit from the Doughteys.

"Hmph." Sherlock flung himself into a chair. "What's good about? It's raining."

He sounded as though the grey weather of England was part of a conspiracy to create a personal affront against him. The hour was quite late (nearing 10:30) and, with the damp outside, Martha could think of only one reason for Sherlock to be slipping into her house like this. "Landlord kick you out again?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"What was it this time - an explosion or late rent?"

"The latter." Sherlock said and Martha shook her head.

"I suppose you know what I'm going to suggest as a way to save money, don't you?"

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "Yes - so please don't bother!"

"Just so we both know where I stand." Martha said. "And I do hope you'll be thinking about it."

He rolled his eyes again. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson." He parroted mockingly, tipping his chair back on two legs.

Martha kicked the chair and watched in satisfaction as his arms pin-wheeled wildly in an attempt to regain his balance. "You keep a civil tongue in your head, mister." She said. "And don't go abusing my chairs. I suppose you know where the spare blankets are?"

"Yes of course." Sherlock righted his chair at last and stood up, heading for the hall closet. "I see that 221B is occupied."

"Mmmhmmm. It is indeed. So it'll be either the sofa or the lilo for you tonight. Which would you prefer?"

"The sofa should be fine, Mrs. Hudson. I've certainly slept in worse places."

She used a bit of correction tape and rewrote a sum. "I bet you have. There's a pair of pyjamas on the top shelf that should fit you. If you're going to keep on needing to kip on my sofa you should at least have something to wear that doesn't look like a sack." She looked at his billowing coat pointedly and he glared back out of habit, preening at the collar until it flipped up to nearly obscure his prominent cheekbones. Martha rolled her eyes.

The rest of the evening passed quite quietly. Martha made up some quick, microwaved food that she had Sherlock down (never would she pass up a chance to get something into him...particularly now when he was looking especially gangly and thin) and then they watched the late news. Nothing much of interest was happening there; just the usual petty scandals and celebrity interviews where they struggled to say something new and innovative in a 'down-to-earth' and 'knowledgeable' way. The weather was going to be rainy for the next couple of days, according to the bleached-toothed weatherman, and there was an alarming exponential rise in organised crime waves happening in Florida, USA. Sherlock immediately perked up at that announcement and pouted slightly whenever only the barest of details were divulged. Sometimes she just didn't know about that boy and his strange obsession with the gruesome and gritty bits of life. If she didn't know him as well as she did, she might worry that _he _would one day be the perpetrator of such a move. But as it stood, Martha felt that she could say with confident certainty that Sherlock was in no danger of becoming a psychopathic killer. She could tell from the way he spoke (especially now that she had known him for several years) that he admired the brilliance behind the method and not the method itself. As long as she could keep him on that side of the line she would never have a cause to fear her boy.

And in a way his unusual tastes and outlook on life were fascinating and refreshing. Much as Martha disliked his relentless deducing of her life's dirty laundry and the clear disdain he sometimes showed, she never really felt offended by it. Sherlock was unpleasant to everyone. His modus operandi was blunt honesty about the shortcomings of others. It wasn't anything personal whenever he pointed out that if Thomas continued to spend his nights away from home she might as well be considered a single woman. That was just Sherlock being Sherlock.

Speaking of the boy, Sherlock quickly lost interest in the television once it became clear that no one knew enough about the events in Florida to say anything outside of vague assumptions and betook himself to the bathroom to shower and change into the pyjamas Martha had bought for him, emerging with bare feet and a head of damp curls that stuck up as though he had touched a Van de Graaff generator. The overall effect was, as always, rather funny and adorable (not that Martha would _ever _wound Sherlock's dignity and good will by divulging such thoughts to him) and Martha got up off of the blanket-covered couch with a yawn.

"Well I'm off to bed." She said, stretching out slightly. "Don't stay up too late with the telly."

"Yes, mother." Sherlock sniped, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. "Any other vital instructions?"

Martha inspected him. "Now that you mention it, yes. You missed a button on your shirt there." She ignored his little protest of_ 'Need a teeshirt...these things are stupid.'_ and smiled. "Just get some sleep. I expect you to be here in the morning, young man. You are kipping on _my _sofa, so no sneaking out the window in the wee hours of the morning. You sleep here, you let me feed you breakfast."

"Whatever."

* * *

"Morning, Sherlock!" Martha piped to the sprawled bundle of blankets and curls on the sofa as she came out of the bedroom. "What'll you be wanting for breakfast?"

"A blow to the head would be nice." Sherlock groused, staring blankly at the raindrops beating against the windowpane and making no move to get up.

"Now now. We wouldn't want to damage that wonderful brain of yours, now would we?"

He groaned. "I suppose not."

"Then get yourself up and get dressed. Then you can help me by making us some coffee. I don't know about you - but I think I need it today."

There were a few more unintelligible groans from the genius on the sofa before he emerged from his cocoon and shuffled lethargically towards the bathroom, presumably to wash up and change.

Martha dug out a couple of eggs (certain, by the manner of Thomas' voicemail message from last night, that he wouldn't be home from 'Marcia's' until at least dinner-time today) and began chopping peppers to make a stab at creating an omelet. She never could get the floppy things to turn over properly...but at least there was plenty of cheese to disguise the breaks. Sherlock wasn't a picky eater anyway. Sometimes he protested taking time out from whatever he was doing for eating (or intentionally - and stupidly - went without to help save money for his rent and various chemicals) but he wasn't prissy by any standards. He had a fondness for sugar and would usually mow down whatever she plunked in front of him. He wouldn't judge her cooking.

"Juice is in the fridge." Martha said to Sherlock as he appeared in the kitchen. "You'll have to make the coffee. Supplies and cups are in the top right hand cupboard."

Without his billowing coat or fluffy pyjamas Sherlock looked thinner than ever (That drug use _had _to stop!) and Martha discretely set aside the pan spray in favour of dropping a generous pat of butter into the skillet instead. A few extra calories wouldn't kill her.

Was all of this worrying and fretting what it was like to have a child? If so - Martha had to say that she felt rather grateful for the fact that with Sherlock some of the more clingy, unreasonable years were a thing of the past and not something she had to deal with...not that Sherlock was always the most agreeable person in the world, though. If she wasn't to have children (out of the question due to her age and marital situation) at least she had someone like that infuriating genius who was currently struggling to remove the seal from the new can of coffee grains. She could dote on Kathy's children and fuss over Sherlock and Martha felt that her life might be something close to complete.


	17. When It Rains It Pours

.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I want to stop right here and say a BIG thank-you to all my readers for the tremendous response I have gotten with this story. I am very humbled and very flattered that so many people seem to be enjoying my work. I had fun writing it and it makes me ever so happy to see that others are having fun reading it. Thank you to everyone who reviewed or messaged me with suggestions and/or feedback. It means so much.

* * *

"Hello? Martha Hudson speaking."

"Martha!" Steve's voice sounded tinny and strained through the phone lines. "Martha- oh God!" He almost choked out the last and Martha instantly stood to attention.

"Steve. What's going on?"

He sounded like he was going to be sick. "It's...oh God, Martha! It's..." He choked, panting raggedly into the receiver.

Martha's heart sunk down to her feet. "Breath, Steve." She said, trying to keep her own voice steady. "Now...tell me what happened."

"There's been an...an accident." Steve's voice was shaking, words catching in his throat. "You know how the weather is just now - all slick and sleeting. Not fit for man or beast, it isn't, what with the cold and the wet." He was rambling, but Martha could tell that it was a method of coping, so she let her brother-in-law go on. "...and Kathy was just stopping for some supper fixings. It all happened so fast!"

"What happened? What's wrong?"

"Kathy and Meggie were coming home when...when," He stopped and took a deep breath. "When a dry goods lorry slid right into their lane and hit them. There was n-no time to stop. It was a full on...a full on collision." His voice broke on the last word and Martha heard him take another deep, shaky breath.

"Oh God - no!" Martha groaned, feeling her knees give way beneath her and groping blindly for a support, clutching the phone in a white-knuckled hand. "Steve; please tell me Kathy's okay."

"I wish I could." _Oh God, oh God - this can't be happening! _"She sustained severe internal injuries during the crash and she's...she's in surgery now." Steve sounded on the verge of breaking down and Martha wasn't much better.

This was a nightmare! "And Meggie...is Meggie okay?"

Steve half-laughed, half-sobbed. "Yeah. She's okay...just a few broken bones. They're keeping her overnight for observation but - I guess those industry-standard car seats do their job, eh?"

"Oh thank God!" Martha sighed in relief. "And what about you?"

"I'm fine. I wasn't in the car...just got here, in fact. The boys are here with me. We're - we're as fine as can be expected."

Martha reached for her coat. "Stay put, Steve. I'm coming down. Which hospital?"

"Martha...I don't know if - "

"She's my sister, Steve. Which hospital?"

He sighed. "I appreciate your support, Martha, really I do. But there's little point in you going out into this weather just to come and sit in a waiting room until we...get some news." Another shaky breath. "It's dangerous out there and the last thing we need right now is s-someone else with injuries."

"But surely you want me to come pick up the boys?"

"No. We're going to kip here on the couches. I've already acquired some blankets from a nurse." Already his voice was growing somewhat stronger as he regained control. "It's too icy to go anywhere...I just, I just thought I should let you know about K-Kathy." There was a flurry of noise and he hurriedly said, "I have to go. Keep praying, Martha." before hanging up.

Martha just sat there, staring at the receiver in stunned silence. Kathy was going to be fine! The surgeons would patch her up and she would be fine - she had to be. Martha didn't think she could take losing her beloved sister the way she had lost her parents and her little brother...and her hope with Thomas. How could one person endure so much loss?

There was a bang and a clatter as Thomas came in through the front door and threw down his keys. "Martha - where's my brown shoes?"

Of _course_ he would barge in just now. The man always seemed to make things inconvenient and uncomfortable for her! "I think they're in the bedroom. Why?"

Thomas clumped down the hallway and could be heard rummaging about in the bedroom. Martha sighed, feeling that the mess he was making was just one straw shy of breaking the camel's back. How could she ever be rid of this coldness inside? This was one thing that tea probably would not be able to fix. Everything was going wrong today. It had started with a broken plate and only intensified with the news of Kathy's terrible accident. Oh God! Could things get any worse?

"Where'd you put them?" Thomas yelled from the bedroom. "They're not here!"

"I don't keep track of your shoes, Thomas." Martha said, slowly rising to her feet and making her way to the hall. "Where did you see them last?" One crisis at a time...that's all she could deal with.

"I don't know!" Thomas nearly whinged.

"Well then I don't know either. Why do you need them?"

"Never mind." Thomas sat down on the bed with a huff and started to lace up a pair of trainers. "I don't have time to look for them."

"Time?"

"Yes, do try to keep up. I'm going out tonight." He sounded very impatient as he made one bunny-ear and then looped the other lace around it. (She had just recently been teaching Meggie..._oh God, Meggie!..._to tie her shoes. She hoped that it was true that the little girl was okay.)

What...what? "You're going out?" She said in confusion as Thomas changed into a more comfortable shirt and jumper. "In this weather?"

He huffed in exasperation and rolled his eyes. "It's not that bad and I have a date." Well he had just dropped all pretences, hadn't he? She had known about the unfaithfulness, obviously, but to have him so shamelessly flaunt it in her face like this was like a fresh slap to the raw nerves of her heart. "I'm taking a cab anyhow. Don't wait up - I'll be out for the night."

All night? She was to be left alone all night with her dark thoughts? Martha shuddered at the thought. Thomas might not be the best of company on a good day...but at least whenever he was conked out snoring it meant that there was someone else in the house with her. Somehow everything just felt warmer and brighter whenever she wasn't all alone listening to the sleet beat against the window panes.

"So I'm going now." Thomas slipped on a jacket and snatched up his gloves.

Martha caught his sleeve as he headed for the door. "Don't go, Thomas, please." She said weakly. "Stay in tonight. It's frightful out there and...and I don't want to be alone." Hot, irrational tears welled up in her eyes and for a moment he wavered before his face shut down and he coldly pulled away.

"Good _night,_ Martha."

* * *

Thomas wasn't gone a half hour before there was a tap-tap at the front door.

Martha dragged herself from the bedroom where she had been having a private (and much-deserved) little crying session and, swiping a Kleenex over her face, went to answer it with her best smile plastered onto her face. Who could be calling on a night like this? Had one of the Doughteys locked themselves out?

It was not Alan or Felicia at the door. But it was the jumble of sodden coat and bony features that made up the figure of Sherlock Holmes - the boy she hadn't seen for months now - dripping and shivering on her doorstep. "Your husband is out and will not be home for the night. Would it be...agreeable for me to utilise your sofa again?"

"Get inside!" Martha dragged the sodden figure into her flat, slamming the door behind her with her foot. This was going to be one of those days when everything happened, wasn't it?

Sherlock coughed slightly and stumbled into her kitchen table, muttering a rather unpleasant-sounding word in some foreign language and rubbing the abused section of his leg ruefully. "It's raining out." He said rather thickly and Martha narrowed her eyes.

His were glassy and slightly unfocused, the beautiful blue-green colour almost completely obscured by his wide-blown pupils. Well he had some nerve; showing up here high as a kite and not in the least bit repentant! He looked terrible; scruffy and dirty, fine cloths more ragged than ever and hanging loosely from a sickly body. The cheekbones were deadly in that milk-white face and the dim light only served to accentuate the shadows beneath his fever-bright eyes.

That decided it. She was going to do something about his condition and she was going to do it now! There were so many things out of her control (Kathy, Meggie, and Thomas - to name just a few) that she was going to seize the thing she could work with and take advantage of it. No point in sitting around moaning and mumbling, after all!

Grabbing Sherlock by the collar and hauling him down the hallway as he put up a weak, ineffective protest, Martha wrestled him into the bathroom and kicked the door shut with a satisfying bang. Sitting Sherlock firmly down on the toilet seat and turning on the heat, she began applying a towel to his dripping curls.

"I sincerely hope that you haven't been stupid and gotten yourself kicked out on a night like this." She said, jerking the fabric perhaps a bit more roughly than was necessary to the area behind his ears. "You're going to catch your death of cold and I won't be the one to arrange your funeral. In fact; if I find out that you have been using your rent money to feed that damn addiction of yours (don't look at me like that - I have eyes) then I'll kill you myself. No. I won't kill you...because the drugs are going to do that first. (Stay still!) You're supposed to be a genius, Sherlock. Use that grey matter between your ears for something other than coming up with insults and excuses!" She threw the towel over her shoulder and began stripping the coat off of the gaping, nearly-unresponsive Sherlock. "I can't believe that someone so smart can be such a fool. No - actually I can because he's sitting right in front of me. You're wasting your life and you don't even seem to care. Stand up - you're shivering and thin as a rake. We've got to get you worked up so I can box your ears without feeling guilty." She moved on to the buttons of his shirt, exposing a pair of protruding collar bones, when he suddenly sprang to life and batted her hands away.

"I am perfectly capable of undressing myself, Mrs. Hudson." He said, curling away from her touch protectively. She snorted, unimpressed.

"Then get yourself into that damn shower and bloody well get warmed up before you turn into an ice cube. What were you thinking, going out on a night like this without an umbrella or gloves?"

"I - I don't know." Sherlock's nose scrunched up as he frowned in confusion. "I was...I was at the crime scene and...no; that was yesterday." His words were slurred and he seemed genuinely disoriented - something that Martha was certain didn't just come from being chilled to the bone.

"At this point, I don't care. Get in that shower and clean yourself up then come out to the kitchen. I'm not done with you yet, young man!" She stalked out of the room and returned with the pyjamas which she threw at his chest. "Get moving!"

Sherlock fumbled with the fabric clumsily and Martha left him to undress. That idiot!


	18. Parenting Is Painful

.

* * *

How could someone so genius be so STUPID?!

Martha crumbled a cracker rather viciously and punched sharply at the microwave buttons. This was the last straw. She was not going to stand by and watch her Sherlock throw his life away - no way, no how. If she had to phone the posh, smarmy older brother herself she would (even though Sherlock would probably hate her for it). That's what you have to do when you love someone...sometimes you have to do the right thing rather than the easy thing and this had gone on for far too long.

She stared at the measuring cup of water as it slowly rotated and sloshed inside the microwave. She was _far _too agitated just now to even consider making a cup of real cocoa...and Sherlock probably wouldn't even notice in the state he was currently in. And if he did? Serves him right for not taking her advice! If he was going to be an idiot and make every attempt at destroying himself then she wasn't going to coddle him about it. The kid gloves were coming off!

By the time Sherlock emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of damp steam, Martha was sitting in the kitchen stirring some instant cocoa with a plan of attack laid out as well as any army general. She studied Sherlock closely, noting that the pyjamas she had bought for him were now dreadfully baggy and that the red-tinge still left on his skin from his hot shower only served to highlight the fact that his face was devoid of all natural, healthy colouring. This only served to strengthen her resolve.

"Have a seat, Sherlock."

He dropped into the indicated chair with a petulant huff and crossed his arms over his chest. "What is it?"

At least by now he was sounded rather more coherent - but Martha did not waver. "Sherlock. I'm going to say this again and I really mean it this time."

"What? Is this another round of your increasingly dull and predictable _'you're addicted, you have to stop' drivel?_" The sneer was palpable in that deep voice.

"Yes it is, Sherlock." Martha said and he scoffed.

"Well don't bother. We've been through all this before, I don't need to hear it again."

"Well clearly you do." She was not about to give up simply because Sherlock was doing his best snarling kicked puppy impersonation. "Because you didn't properly listen the first time so I have to repeat myself. I don't like doing the broken record routine, but if that's what it takes to get this through your thick head then I'll go on for ages."

He mumbled something under his breath that might have been _"You already have"_ and shifted his features into what might have been a pout.

"Pull your lower lip in, young man. If a bee came along just now it would surely sting you."

"It's below freezing outside. It is highly improbable that any species of stinging insect would be out and about." Sherlock's voice was clinical and factual...but his hands were shaking slightly where they were tucked into the crook of his arms. "So don't bother. Why are you bothering?"

"Because I'm afraid for you." Martha said, staring seriously at him. "This has gone WAY past the realm of mild addiction or casual use. Look at yourself! You're shaky and disoriented and you're starting to look like a Nazi prisoner-of-war."

"If that is true then I fail to see why you are bothering with this intervention. Due to strictures set by the Geneva Convention, POW's were treated fairly decently all-around by the German Army personnel. I think you're confusing your metaphors."

"Don't you get hung up on technicalities, Sherlock Holmes! You know _exactly _what I meant. What are you going to do about it?"

Sherlock shrugged sulkily. "You're just trying to make my life miserable, aren't you."

"I'm going to ignore that and assume that it's just the withdrawal paranoia talking." Martha shoved a mug of the microwave cocoa at him and glared until he started sipping at it. "What am I to think with you showing up on my doorstep soaked, shivering, and clearly high?"

"So is that why you dragged me in and started stripping my clothes off?"

There was that wicked, slightly-empty grin again. Did he honestly think she could be shocked and thrown off the trail? "You know exactly what I was doing, mister. Don't try to twist things around and distract me. It didn't work the past twenty times you tried it and it won't now. You're supposed to be a genius...learn from your bloody mistakes."

"Whatever."

"No it's not 'whatever'. I'm not going to sit by any longer and watch you kill yourself!"

His energy was clearly lagging, but he made another attempt to scowl. "It's none of your damn business! It's my life and that doesn't concern you. OW!"

Swift as a striking mamba Martha reached out and clipped him about the ear. "Don't you _dare _say that! Don't you dare! You don't live in a bubble, Sherlock...everything you do effects someone else in some way. Have you ever considered _my_ feelings - how I might feel if you die?" She glared at him as he stared at her like a poleaxed owl.

"Why would you care?"

"I am disappointed that, after all this time, you still feel the need to ask that question. You've got that great brain between your ears. If you haven't rotted it away yet with your damn drugs then put it to good use and deduce the answer."

He was still looking like a landed fish, but he managed to splutter out a few disjointed answers that ranged from absolutely confused to defensive and angry. Martha could see that exhaustion was taking him over (the shaking was getting worse and his speech was suddenly slurring) so she reached over and tugged him up out of the chair, shoving him in the direction of the sofa. "You get yourself some damn help, Sherlock Holmes. Whatever it takes." She said, chucking a blanket at him. "Because I don't ever want to be standing over your grave."


	19. Better and Better?

.

* * *

Sherlock slept fitfully that night, despite his clear exhaustion. Martha could hear him every few hours tossing and turning - or even roaming about the flat She got little sleep either, fretting and worrying the night away as she pondered how on earth she was going to get the stubborn Sherlock to listen to her.

He left the next morning, following another squabble at breakfast, and she desperately hoped that it wouldn't be the last time she saw his pale face. He was so deeply entangled in his drugs' poisonous embrace that if he didn't really want it there was no way that his cruel captor would consent to freeing him. It would be a constant uphill battle; and it was a battle that she didn't think he could fight alone. But it was clear that he wasn't going to let her help him and so all she could do was to nudge him in the right direction and to provide supplies and support for the fight.

* * *

"Kathy! Hey." Martha sat down next to her sister's bed and caught hold of the bruised hand, chafing it gently. "How are you feeling?"

"Just peachy keen and marvellous." Kathy grinned around the oxygen mask. "I've always wanted technocolour skin."

Martha snorted and lightly slapped Kathy's hand. "It's not funny, Katherine!"

"Oh?" Kathy's expression was knowing. "Then why are you smiling?"

"Because you are such an impossible goof!" Martha said, giving her sister's hand a squeeze.

Kathy's eyes were twinkling even as she shifted and winced. "Well I'll continue being your goof if it means I can see that smile of yours more often. You haven't been doing much of it recently, I can tell."

"That's because there hasn't been much of anything to smile about." Martha defended, eager to deflect this conversation. "But you're getting better now so I promise to do plenty of smiling."

"You'd better." Kathy shifted and winced again, hissing through her teeth. "Ow. Dammit!"

"Kathy what is it? Should I call the nurse?"

Kathy grimaced out a smile. "I'm fine, Martha, stop your fussing. The incisions just twinge sometimes. Bloody inconvenient. And they didn't even have the decency to liposuct my baby fat while they were at it!"

All Martha could do was stare at her sister and burst into helpless, bemused laughter. Wasn't that just Kathy all over and didn't it feel so good to just let herself indulge in some pure, cleansing laughter? When was the last time she had laughed like this? Two months? Three?

"You see? You should do this more often - it's good for you. Don't be an Ebeneezer Scrooge!" Kathy smiled happily at her sister, looking as self-satisfied as the cat who ate the canary. "Thanks for braving the elements to come and visit me, sis. It's done me some good as well."

"My pleasure, Kathy. I'm just so glad you're doing better."

"Slowly but surely."

The two sisters sat and chatted for a while, covering everything from the quality of the hospital food (Kathy swore that she could play marbles with her peas) to the rather crappy selection of telly programming that was available (_"I don't care about who won the million quid jackpot! They'll be broke in six months...you watch and see!"_) It was nice to sit there and have some conversation that was neither one-sided nor combative but actually pleasant and Martha made a note to do better with her 'contact Kathy' schedule.

Eventually Steve and the kids arrived (Meggie proudly showing off her neon-green cast) and Martha bowed out on the offer of hospital coffee in favour of a quiet exit to give them their family time. She hailed a cab and headed back to Baker Street, feeling lighter than she had for ages.

Everyone needs time to renew and recharge - especially whenever they live a life of strenuous tightrope-walking day after day - and Martha felt that she could do with Thomas going on another business trip just to get some time alone.

Oddly enough, scarcely a month later, Martha got her wish as Thomas departed _yet again _for Florida. Whatever happened to the days when he was travelling to Bordeaux and Denver? Still, she wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so she packed up his suitcases for him and showed him the door with perhaps more glee than was strictly proper.

Lonely as it could be sometimes - it was nice to have a few peaceful afternoons to kick back and watch the spring sunshine brighten the newly-washed kitchen windows. The 221 building no longer felt hollow and dead as the Doughteys upstairs and Sally Turner next door made the place buzz like a beehive - full of life and humanity.

It was one such afternoon (when she had just returned from visiting Kathy and the Doughteys were heading out for a family excursion) that Sherlock Holmes rolled in through her bathroom window. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson." He said smoothly, standing up and brushing off his beloved coat with care.

"Sherlock!"

"Yes, that is my name." He smiled slightly and flopped down on the sofa. "What other stunning revelations have you to unveil?"

"I - I just." Someone somewhere must have heard her prayers! "You look wonderful!"

"Thanks?"

She swatted him and scoffed. "You know what I meant!"

It was true; Sherlock seemed a new creature - looking less like the sickly stick-figure about to fall over at a sneeze and more like the sharp, intelligent young man she had met in a library all those years ago (Had it really been nearly a decade that she had known him? How time does fly!) Sherlock allowed her scrutiny with only a token roll-of-the-eyes. "Finished?"

"Not quite." Martha said, heart lifting at the sound of his strong, clear voice. "What happened to you?"

He scowled, looking rather annoyed. "Mycroft." He said the name like it was the description of the worst type of refuse. "Picked me up not long after I'd left here the last time and forced me into _rehab_." There was a sneer to his voice that Martha recognised as the one he reserved for objects of uttermost disdain. "I was only let loose late last week. Hellish jailers finally had to admit that there was nothing more they could hold me on and so I am a free man again. Here." He fumbled in his pocket and handed over a scrap of paper. "My new mobile number. Had to dispose of the last one. Mycroft bugged it while I was...incapacitated. It's been duly melted."

"Well, I can't say that I'm overly fond of that brother of yours," He cracked a smile at her statement and looked rather smug, "But it is good to see you looking so much better," The parallels with Kathy's situation did not escape her. Everything about her life was looking up! She only hoped it would last.

"Yeah. Whatever." Sherlock drew his knees up to his chest and leaned back. "It is good to be back in control. So you can stop your worrying; I'm fine."

"I'm glad of that. But don't expect me to stop worrying; it's my job."

Another smile tugged at his mouth. "I wouldn't expect any different of you, Mrs. Hudson." He said in his know-it-all, deduced-the-hell-out-of-you voice. "But I'm fine - I run the transport, not the other way around."

* * *

"Felicia, honey?" Alan Doughtey looked up from his laptop as his daughter walked through the sitting room, bound for the door. "Where are you off to?"

"Just heading out to meet some friends." She said, shrugging on a light jacket.

"And where might you be meeting them?"

Felicia rolled her eyes. "I don't know. Might stop by a shop or something and pick up some food. I'll call if I'm going to be out later than four, okay?"

"I guess." Alan looked back to the open Word doc. he was working on. "Just drop off the rent down at the Hudsons', would you? It's in the envelope by the door."

"This one?" Felecia brandished a tattered blue envelope at her father who spared it a cursory glance.

"Yeah. That's the one."

"Then I'm off. See you later, Dad."

"See you. Don't forget to call!"

"Whatever."


	20. The Girl Next Door

.

* * *

"Why _do _you always come in through my window like that?" Martha offered Sherlock a mug of tea and sat down with her own cuppa. "The front door is fully functional and less likely to tear your clothes."

"Hmm. I know." Sherlock sipped at his tea. "And last time I used it I was captured by a fat git." He snorted in disgust. "That's why I try to come in by another means. There aren't any CCTV cameras in your alley so there is no way Mycroft can see me climbing up on your bins."

Well that was certainly an amusing mental picture! Martha hid a grin behind her cup as she was quite certain he didn't realise just how funny what he said was. For all of his observational skills Sherlock could be amazingly oblivious sometimes when it came to personal matters.

"So. Now that you've gotten yourself cleaned up and you've told your brother to bugger off (don't roll your eyes like that - I know you did) what are you going to do with yourself?"

He shrugged, sipping again at the tea. "Going to find myself a new flat...I think Mycroft has put surveillance on my current one. He doesn't approve of some of my experiments and he pokes his nose into _everything_! The only way to escape is to move house as quick as possible. After that, I might get on and try to isolate a new element or something if I don't get too bored. We'll see."

There was a knock at the door and Martha leapt to her feet with a startled "Oh!", scurrying around to sweep dirty dishes into the sink and straighten piles of clutter. A weekend of telly and leftovers doth one messy flat make. The knock sounded again, more impatiently this time. "Get that, would you, Sherlock?" Martha said, dashing back into the bedroom to ditch her stained blouse for something a bit more professional. "I'll be right out."

Sherlock grunted out a muffled reply and slung himself off of the sofa to do as Martha asked.

* * *

_Dotty old woman better open the door soon!_ Felicia scuffed her shoe against the braided rug and sighed in annoyance. _I'm going to be late and everyone will stare at me._

She hated these monthly rent payments they had to make. It was always so embarrassing whenever her father would make her run the payment down because he was too engrossed in his stupid job to make it down the stairs. Sometimes Mr. Hudson (a hulking, sharply-dressed man) would answer the door and that was awkward but bearable - he would just grab the envelope and grunt out a "thanks" before shutting the door. But whenever Mrs. Hudson was there you had better resign yourself to half-an-hour of belly-inducing snacks and intrusive comments about your favourite perfume brand or school subject.

Torture...that's what it was, sheer torture. Why did the old bat have to yammer on like that anyway? Felicia always felt so uncomfortable...she didn't know what to say but she didn't know how to back out of the conversation either.

Well - best to just get this over with! She raised a hand to pound on the door again.

"If you continue to hit with that portion of your fist at that angle you risk severely bruising the metacarpophalangeal joint."

_Dear God, an angel must have just fallen from the sky..._

It was like her brain had shut off - causing her heart to skip a beat and her breath to catch in her throat as she stared up at the otherworldly individual who had opened 221A's door. Guys like this just didn't exist outside of the movies. They couldn't!

Eagerly she drank in the sharp, beautifully-coloured eyes, the thick dark curls, and the cheekbones that ghosted just a bit too close under the smooth, pale skin. If this is what The Incredible Hulk and Sailor Moon could produce then she would never say another negative word against them. Talk about a perfect stranger! He even had the intelligence and the _voice..._

"Do you have something to say to me, or should I continue to assume that you are as stupid as your shampoo and gaping mouth seem to indicate?"

_Oh God...yes! Just keep on speaking with that rumbling purr. _

"I thought as much. Now are you going to hand over that envelope hanging from your hideously-painted fingernails? I don't really want to stand here examining your tonsils and uninteresting person for much longer."

"Now Sherlock - you behave!" Mrs. Hudson appeared out of nowhere, swatting the tall, dark stranger with a magazine. "Sorry about that." She said to Felicia, stepping between them and snapping her out of her trance. "He needs to keep a civil tongue in his head."

_I can think of a few things he could do with that...FOCUS!_ "I - um." Her tongue was tied into multiple layers of sailor-confounding knots. Did he have to stand there looming in the doorway like that? Not that she was complaining...but...oh God! "H-here's the, uh, envelope with this month's - " She stole a look at his hands and had to repress a squeal. Artist's hands, her dad would say; slender and strong. Perfect for painting and composing and... _No - stop it, stop it! Spit out the words and get the hell out of here before you melt!_ " - this month's rent."

This was like something out of a fairy tale - the handsome, mysterious prince who would whisk the fair maiden off of her feet and into the sunset. Even if the tall, slim, and pale men weren't her type she would definitely go for this one. Where did he come from? Surely he couldn't be Mrs. Hudson's son! But why else would he be staying with the batty old woman? Felicia tried desperately to pull her eyes away from his shirt-collar (Of _course _he would leave the top buttons undone! He had a very nice neck...) and stared into the ethereal green eyes that seemed to pierce her very soul. She was blushing, she knew - the skin of her cheeks and forehead set on fire by this dark angel. Oh...and she was still clutching the rent-envelope between her fingers. Damn! She actually had to make herself move now, didn't she?

* * *

Poor Felicia was looking rather flushed and flustered ('flusterated', as Kathy would say) and, given the general direction that she kept sneaking glances in, it wasn't too difficult to discern the reason for it. "Felicia?" Martha said, stepping forward slightly and wondering if she would have to slap the poor girl. "Can I have that?" She reached for the envelope and Felicia seemed to stir a bit.

"Huh?" She glanced down at her hand as though she had forgotten it was there. "The - the envelope? Ah. Right." The blush was crimson now and Martha hid a smile. She had it bad, didn't she? "H-here."

Carefully avoiding looking at Sherlock, Felicia handed over the rent and took a step back - looking half-terrified as her eyes slipped back over to the genius.

Amusing as this was, Martha decided to take pity on both parties involved (Sherlock was glaring at Felicia like he wanted to make her into a shish kebab) and said, "Thank you, dear. Have a nice day!" before firmly shutting the door and cutting off the staring contest.

Sherlock muttered something that sounded like his trademark "Idiot!" before he rolled over the back of the sofa and stretched out with his feet hanging over the arm.

"Don't be so rude, Sherlock." Martha scolded lightly, setting the rent payment in with her banking papers. "Felicia is a very nice girl."

"Humph." He sounded just like that one kangaroo from **_Horton Hears A Who_**, "Maybe if gormless staring and inane babbling can be misconstrued into something resembling pleasant."

For that he got a swat on the foot. "She fancies you, you know."

Martha grinned to herself as Sherlock Holmes sat bolt upright and nearly fell off of the sofa. "What?" The genius squeaked. "What the hell makes you say that?"

"I've got eyes, young man, and I'm not quite senile yet. If that girl doesn't fancy you then that sofa you're sitting on is made of beeswax."

"That is sometimes used to polish wood for legs and frames." Sherlock said distractedly.

"The point still stands. Felicia is quite smitten - so you'd better be a gentleman and not break her heart."

"Break her...Mrs. Hudson!" Now _he _was the flusterated one. "I have no intention of...of _courting _Miss Felicia Doughtey!"

He looked like a cat that had just been sprayed with icy water...if that cat suddenly started spouting off Austen. Martha was persistent. "She's a nice girl, Sherlock - quiet. And completely smitten with you."

"Girls - " Sherlock shifted and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Girlfriends really aren't my area, Mrs. Hudson."

But surely...oh. _Oh! _She understood now. No wonder he didn't like to talk about Victor after they parted ways! It was probably a very nasty breakup (given the type of fellow Victor seemed to be) and that was why Sherlock had become so entangled in the drugs. Well it all made sense now!

"I understand, Sherlock...and it's all fine."


	21. Master of the House

.

* * *

Shortly after this revelation, Sherlock took himself into the bathroom and scrambled back out the window. Martha had to come to the rescue when that ridiculous, billowing coat of his caught on the latch and left him hanging like a piece of washing put out to dry. "The front door, Sherlock." She chided lightly. "You could always wear a disguise!"

"Not worth the risk, but thanks anyway." The baritone called back as Sherlock headed down the alley and nimbly scrambled up a fire-escape. Martha watched him go until he was out of sight, shaking her head in fond exasperation.

This became a regular pattern over the next year or so; Martha would be alone in the house (Thomas either out for the night or all the way across the pond in America) and she would hear someone tumbling in through her bathroom window. Sometimes he would need to stay the night, other times he would just be popping in for some tea and a chat. Well - she would chat and he would occasionally make derogatory remarks about her taste in telly or the stupidity of her tenants (particularly the 'young female person'...as Sherlock put it, unwilling to even call Felicia by name). More than once Martha had come out into the hallway to find Sherlock looming over the poor girl, spitting out derogatory phrase after derogatory phrase while she eyed him up unashamedly...either not hearing the sneer in his voice or too thick to pick up on his subtle insults. Martha couldn't really blame her. Those who fell under Sherlock's spell often found themselves acting stupider than usual simply by virtue of proximity with the genius...because they tried too hard to show off and ended up royally embarrassing themselves. Martha always felt that watching him do that was like watching a snake-charmer work his magic on a deadly serpent; hypnotising it until it did his will. She wasn't entirely certain that _all _of it was unintentional...Sherlock did have quite the ego, for all that he was woefully insecure about certain things.

Even Alan from upstairs seemed interested and drawn in by Sherlock...especially after the genius had snarled out a few observations about the novel that the artist/writer had been mumbling about. He had said that it was predictable, boring, and sickeningly-sentimental and Alan, practically trembling with excitement and the thrill of creation, had shaken his hand and darted upstairs with a wild laugh. Martha had laughed unashamedly at the bewildered expression on Sherlock's face. Clearly he had expected a completely different reaction and was pondering whether or not Alan was quite sane. Well, people in glass houses...

Things were good. Life was good (well, as good as it was ever probably going to get) and Martha could only pray that it would stay good this time. But life is like a box of chocolates...as that one movie said...and nothing ever stays for long.

* * *

Thomas Hudson groaned out a curse as he whacked the crown of his head off of the top of the cab door. They needed to make these things more accommodating for tall people...it just wasn't fair.

Paying the cabbie (a ridiculous sum), he stumbled up the stairs and in through the front door. He needed a drink!

"Thomas!" _Oh God...it's that barmy artist from upstairs. The one that never shuts the hell up for all that he acts like a nervous little hamster. The one that stunk up the flats with his paints. _"Is it wet enough out there for you?"

_Does he honestly think that is funny right now?_ "It's fine." Thomas grunted and made an effort to push past the grinning Mr. Doughtey.

But Alan was not to be brushed off today. He was too high on his euphoric cloud to notice anything stormy coming his way. The man was usually sensible enough (if a bit absent-minded) but something today had driven him into a state of ecstasy that put a beaming smile on his face that made Thomas' skin crawl.

...and the man was still rambling on! "I must say, Thomas, your son is quite the thinker."

_Son? What the HELL was he on about? _"Oh?"

"You can bet your golf club he is. Absolutely brilliant! Thanks to him I now have a best-seller published and a sequel in the works." Doughtey was practically dancing a jig - a frightening state for the usually distracted and introverted artist to be entering.

"Well good for you." Thomas' brain was whizzing at this development and he wanted nothing more than to get inside his flat, shut the door, and get something to help him process it all. But he had to at least make an effort at being polite. Doughtey and his rent was the perfect smoke screen, "When was this then?"

"The publishing letter came yest - "

"No, no. I meant the help that my...my boy gave you. When was that?" Information. He needed information so that he could get away and properly puzzle this out.

Alan smiled still wider and rubbed his hands together. "Wouldn't you know it was just last week? He comes around every so often and stays overnight...but never long enough for me to really pick his brain. Shame. A mind like that is invaluable."

"He just stays overnight." _What? He'd _never _let _anyone _sleep on his lilo! _

"Yeah he does. It must be very hard to only see your son every once and a while, for all that he's an arrogant sod (terribly rude to my Felicia). It can't be easy to have to travel so much for your work either. It seems that you're scarcely here whenever Sherlock comes by. At least, I only ever see him with Martha."

_Only comes around when I'm out. Only ever seen with Martha...no. No - she wouldn't dare!_

"Well, I'd best be getting back to work!" Alan said, clapping Thomas on the shoulder (an invasion of personal space that was most unwanted) and darting up the stairs with a near-manical laugh.

Thomas stared after the artist for a moment. What was going on around here? It was like falling down the proverbial rabbit hole. The Doughteys were being social, he wasn't able to get away from them, and Martha was apparently running a hostel (or something) for a budding genius. What the hell? He hadn't given permission for anything of the sort! Thomas shrugged off his damp coat and headed for his own door. It was time to have a little talk with Martha.


	22. Hitting Rock Bottom

.

* * *

**Warning: **There is a bit of strong language used in this chapter (I'll give you one guess by whom) and while I don't in any way condone speaking that way to anyone...I've given it a lot of thought and there really wasn't any way to get around it. So to those of you that are touchy about such things, I apologise and say that you should consider yourself warned. All others - just sit back and enjoy the chapter.

* * *

_"Because if you do I should warn you...it won't be quiet, it won't be safe, and it won't be kind. But I'll tell you what it will be: the trip of a lifetime!"_

Martha sat back and tucked her feet underneath herself on the sofa, settling in with a deep sigh. Some staples of British culture just never managed to completely die out; things like the queue, the consumption of tea, and now apparently _Doctor Who_...an odd but enjoyable little thing Martha remembered her father watching religiously throughout her childhood. She had never put much stock into the story of men in green rubber masks crawling around and growling (though she remembered having nightmares about the 'ciphermen') but folk seemed to be excited about it coming back...so maybe on those particularly boring Saturday afternoons she would give the old staple a second chance. that is...if her husband didn't appropriate the remote and start surfing the sports channels.

Hugging a cushion, Martha relaxed with a magazine - watching the telly commercials with one eye in the hopes that something interesting (beyond the odd promotional) would come on. A steak pie was in the oven and everything was spick, span, and tidy - all ready for Thomas' inevitable arrival.

"MARTHA!"

Speak of the devil...

The door of the flat slammed open with a crash, making her jump and drop her reading, as Thomas stomped into the sitting room - breathing heavily and snorting like an enraged bull.

"Why whatever is the matter, Thomas?" Martha got to her feet and turned to greet him nervously. She had no idea what could have driven him to this state of angry agitation and really hoped that she could calm him down. He was angrier than she had ever seen him before...and it frightened her. Still - best not to let him see how much he scared her. Wasn't that the way you were to respond to maddened dogs; never let them smell your fear? "Thomas; what is it?"

"I heard something interesting today." Thomas was speaking through gritted teeth and Martha noted with trepidation that his fists were clenched tightly by his side, fists at the end of arms that were tense with coiled, rage-filled energy. "Do you know what it was?"

"No, Thomas. I don't know."

He took a menacing step forward. "I heard that you've been renting out OUR flat to some scruffy teenager with a stick so far up his arse that he can't keep his nose out of our _actual_ tenants' business."

"What?"

"Don't take me for a fool, Martha. I know all about your little friend."

Martha's head was spinning. What was going on? How could Thomas have discovered this and why was he so enraged? Why, God, why? "Thomas I - I."

"Shut up!" Thomas slammed a fist into the back of the sofa, voice snarling out an angry bark. "Did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you really think that you could get away with going behind my back with something like this?"

"Oh because you've never tried to do the same to me." Martha snapped back in defence. "The hours I've spent, waiting and wondering..."

"That's your problem then." Thomas' face was contorted into something ugly. "You always were a nosey, sentimental fool. But I never thought you capable of _this_!"

"And what's wrong with giving a fellow human being some food and a warm place to sleep?"

"We ain't the Salvation Army." Thomas sneered, deliberately dropping into a mocking accent. "If he so desperately needs those things let him go to the damn shelter. But I will _not _have a filthy, swotty boy hanging about my house. What would the neighbours think?"

There lay the crux of the matter, Martha thought: Thomas' bloody, stupid ego and overemphasised sense of appearance would be their ruin yet. "Marie Turner isn't particularly prejudiced, Thomas, and the Evans' moved out years ago. I don't see what's got you into such a strop."

"What's got me into...Martha!" There was spittle practically flying from his mouth. "I can't believe that you'd go sneaking about, flaunting these things in front of our tenants and acquaintances like a shameless young hussy!"

"You mean like those who you prefer the bed of to mine, I suppose." Martha said coldly...but that only served to make him angrier.

"Well maybe if you weren't such a whiny bitch!" He snarled, looking enraged.

"How dare you!" Martha half-shrieked - shocked at his language. Even in all of his drunken rants he had never called her that before...and this time he didn't even have the excuse of being under the influence. She gasped and Thomas bared his teeth in response to her pain.

"How dare _you_?" He shouted back, looking threatening. Jumping at his loud voice, Martha cast a furvitive look upward.

"Hush! The Doughteys..."

"Damn the Doughteys!" Thomas roared over her shushing reprimand, losing all pretences in the face of his rage. "I don't give a bull's arse about what they damn well think just now. I'm talking about you dragging every bloody Tom, Dick, or Harry knobhead in off the street while I'm away working my arse off to earn us some cold cash that will pay for _your _bloody magazines and fancies."

Oh well that was a fine argument to make - rife as it was with inaccuracy and profanity. "Maybe I get a bit lonely." Martha said hotly, feeling treacherous tears pooling behind her eyes. Thomas towered over her, face dark with irrational anger and caring little for her raw and bruised heart as he shouted at her with a cruel sneer.

"You were lonely. So you decide that pulling a Mrs. Robinson stunt would be the way to take care of that, then?"

"WHAT?" Martha was shouting too now - too shocked and horrified to care about keeping her voice down. Scorching, salty tears overflowed and ran staining tracks down her face as she clenched her fists by her side and confronted her husband. "How could you - how _could you?_"

"So you don't deny it." Now his voice was quiet, controlled - contrasting deliberately with her shaking loss of composure. It was just one of the tactics that Thomas had perfected over the years; making her feel like the hormonal, foolish one...the one that he would later chuckle and cluck to his mates about 'PMS' and 'bitching'. "I've thought many things of you over the years, Martha. But this is quite the shock." He ran a hand through his hair and laughed wildly. "I work hard to bring home the bread and all the while you're sleeping around with some ratty teenager."

"Shut up! You don't know anything - just shut up!"

"How long were you going to try and hide it from me?"

How dare he? The hypocrite! "Like you have done so many times to me in the past. Need I remind you of 'Shells'...or how about 'Julia', 'Meggie', 'Ruth', or 'Gladys'? Oh yes - I know about them all. I'm not stupid, Thomas, despite what you would like to believe. And Sherlock isn't a ratty teenager. He's a genius and a real sweet boy."

"Oh I'm sure he is. Something real new and exciting...for now."

"I'm not sleeping with him, you bastard!" Martha screamed. "And even if I was, it's nothing worse than you've ever done. You belittle me, you cheat on me, and then you dare to blame me for your problems. You're not my husband - you haven't been for years, not really. I HATE you! Why don't you just leave me alone?"

"YOU FUCKING WHORE!"

Sharp pain exploded across her cheekbone as Thomas' hand made contact - slapping her roughly. Martha stumbled back into the corner of the coffee table, cradling her throbbing cheek and staring wide-eyed at her husband who was breathing very hard, nostrils flaring in anger. He seemed as shocked as she was, standing there frozen with arm still upraised. They held eye contact for a long moment, panting and gasping (Thomas in anger, Martha in pain) both well aware that something further had crumbled between them in that moment. Another line had been crossed and a new die cast. These were cracks that could never be mended; one touch of a feather would send the whole thing crumbling to the ground and so they both stood there afraid to move - listening to the sound of their breathing and the droning of the television.

Then the moment was shattered as Thomas dropped his hand and spat in her direction, turning sharply on his heel and stalking out of the house without once looking back.

Martha heard the door slam and sank to the ground, burying her face in her hands and shaking with silent, bitter sobs. How had it come to this?

* * *

_"Martha. I'm leaving for America in the morning and I shan't be coming back. I've been transferred to Florida and I've decided to let you stay here in _my _house and to have your little fling. You'd better enjoy it while it lasts because sooner or later that pretty boy is going to come to his senses and run the other way so fast you won't even have time to say goodbye. Don't come crying to me when it happens. Goodbye."_

Martha's hands trembled with anger as she clutched the phone in one hand and the hotel bill in the other (the bill that Thomas had had forwarded to _her _after he decided to spend their week apart nursing his wounds in the lap of luxury). Right now she wanted to strangle the man and cry on his shoulder. A week alone in the flat had only served to infect the wounds that she bore from Thomas' cruel words; now they were sore and raw to the point where she felt that remaining in bed would be the best course of action to take...if the empty right side didn't remind her of her husband's absence and smearing assumptions. She ached for the comforting arms of her father (long dead) or the smile of her mother (even longer dead) but she knew that there would be no such gesture coming. She was well and truly alone in this.


	23. Keep Calm & Carry On

.

* * *

She had so long wished for Thomas to be gone from her life; for one of his 'business trips' to go on indefinitely. So why did it now feel so lonely and bereft to wake up in an empty bed in an empty flat each day and to know that it would stay empty? Human emotion was terrible; a twisting, complicated web of lies and traps that was too draining and all-encompassing to even make an attempt at untangling.

Martha scrubbed a hand over her face wearily, wincing as she hit the bruise on her cheek. Didn't that just signify her life...pain that rested just beneath the surface, tender and ready to sting when brushed the wrong way? If only she could stay holed up here forever, hiding away from the cruel world inside her protective (if lonely) cocoon then maybe she could lick her wounds in peace.

But that simply wasn't feasible. Just that Thursday (nearly a fortnight to the day of their big fight) Martha received notice from Thomas' bank that he had taken her name off of his account, essentially cutting off all communication and obligation between them. That felt like another slap to the face, though she supposed that she shouldn't really be surprised. In addition to having a hot temper and bad case of paranoia, Thomas was also a vindictive soul and it was clear that he was not going to forgive this one any time soon. So it was back to the days of penny-pinching then...and as Martha thought about it she realised that she was going to have to talk to Alan about raising the rent. And that meant leaving her flat to face someone who had probably heard the whole damn mess. Bugger!

* * *

"I'm sorry to bother you, Alan." Martha said, tapping on the door-frame of 221B and stepping in. "But there's something I need to discuss."

Alan glanced up from his keyboard almost guiltily and his eyes widened, fixing almost instantly on her bruised cheek before awkwardly sliding away and looking at everything but her. "What is it?"

"I'm afraid it looks like I'm going to need to raise the rent a bit and so I just wanted to pop up and discuss how much you could manage." This was uncomfortable. Thomas had been so much better at this than she could dream of being (she was a pushover when it came to money matter, Martha knew) and she felt bad for the single-father artist who had been so delighted to find such a prime flat at so splendid a price. Others had been too, but had quickly decided that they didn't want Thomas for a landlord. Alan was the only one to stick with it and Martha hoped that she wouldn't lose him now too.

Fortunately Alan seemed just as eager to make this thing work out smoothly and quickly as she was and in no time at all they had hammered out a reasonable new rent pricing that would be doable for the Doughteys and provide all the support Martha would need (if she watched her spending carefully).

Martha could feel his gaze boring into her, though he never quite managed to make eye-contact, and she hated the pity that was clearly written all over his face. Yes what Thomas had said and done was terrible; but it was over now and having a communal pity-party wouldn't help her any. She just wanted to forget - to become her own person and live a life far away from the controlling shadow of Thomas Hudson. He had cast her to the side so she was going to shake his dust from her feet and move on in life, no matter how sad she still felt. There was no point in moping and begging for sympathy. What good would pity do her anyway? Pity wouldn't pay the bills or buy necessities so why bother?

No sooner was the deal struck and the latest payment in hand then did Martha flee from the pitying atmosphere of 221B back to her own flat of solitude, resolving to grit her teeth and go about with her chin up. She wouldn't give Thomas the satisfaction of having beaten _her! _

As soon as she stepped in through the door she knew something was different...that someone else was in the flat waiting for her. There was the smell of coffee from the kitchen and a dark, woollen coat flung haphazardly over the back of the sofa. An involuntary smile stole over Martha's lips and she went on into the kitchen where she found Sherlock Holmes lounging in a chair, munching on a plate of digestives.

"Well help yourself and make yourself at home." Martha quipped as she flung the rent envelope on the table, retrieving a mug for herself and pouring out some hot, fragrant brew. "I haven't seen you for a while, Sherlock. What have you been doing?"

"You're limping." Sherlock said flatly around a mouthful of biscuit. "You're favouring your right leg every time you take a step. You've never walked like that before; what happened?"

Martha sighed. And now Sherlock was doing it...why did he have to be so inquisitive about everything? That clot. "You're the genius. Make a deduction." As she spoke she turned around and quick as lightning (faster even than Alan who must have heard everything) Sherlock's eyes fastened onto her bruised cheek, cataloguing the position, size, and colour as it faded from purple to a sickly yellowish green. Martha braced herself, waiting for the string of deductions and insults aimed both at Thomas himself and at her taste in life-partners. His eyes were flicking all over the flat now. Any second...and there he was opening his mouth to speak...

"I'm going to kill him."

She blinked and did a double take, trying to reconcile Sherlock's quiet declaration with the preconceived notion in her mind. "What?"

"Your moronic excuse for a human being husband, Thomas. Do I really have to say it again?" His eyes were burning into her now...burning with a cold rage that Martha was very grateful he wasn't directing at her. "It's clear that he struck you on the face in some sort of conflict, knocking you back into the coffee table where you then injured your hip somehow (probably a bruised and torn muscle, can't be certain without an autopsy). You really should leave that worthless - "

"All right, Sherlock. That's enough." Martha said, catching hold of his hand where it ghosted against her bruised cheek. "He's gone now. Let's put it behind us."


	24. Hazards of the Job

.

* * *

"So, Sherlock. Tell me what you've been up to recently." Martha sat down painfully with her cup of coffee (that hip really was troublesome...maybe she should brave the clinic and have it seen by a doctor) and smiled at her favourite boy who flopped back down himself and took a sip of his own brew.

"I am working with Scotland Yard." He said, chest puffing up a bit. "This new DI that replaced Forthwright is apparently not quite the idiot that his colleagues are. At least he recognises his own areas of incompetence."

"And comes to you?"

"He consults me. Every time there is a case that puts him out of his depth (which is most of them) he comes and finds me. Some of them actually manage to be somewhere near to interesting."

For all that he tried to be casual and nonchalant about this job, Martha could see him practically wriggling with excitement as he spoke of it. Well - as close to wriggling in excitement as Sherlock Holmes was capable of getting. She smiled; delighted that he had finally found something to focus his mind on...though she could have done without some of the more gleeful recounts of crime scenes. Still she wasn't going to complain. She saw the absent scratching of the arms that Sherlock still occasionally fell into and privately suspected that he might suffer from the occasional minor relapse into old habits.

And life went on, as it always has and always will - a river relentlessly flowing towards the sea, sometimes slipping along slowly and other times rushing through rapids, but never stagnating in one place. Martha went about her life as before, the only alteration being the wistfully blissful feeling of no longer having the shadow of Thomas' unpredictable personality. What a poisoned blessing it was. She hated the fact that her husband had so cruelly tossed her aside - it only served to drive home the bitter pill of undesirability that she had been force-fed for so many years - but at least the pill was swallowed now and could no longer choke her.

* * *

"Martha I - I'm sorry but I'm afraid I'm going to have to put in a leave notice." Alan stood in the doorway wringing his hands and looking sweatily apologetic...the same look he had held every time he came into direct contact with Martha over the past few months. The neighbourly community feel to the building was gone as both Alan and Felicia seemed to avoid Martha at all costs. Now it looked as though they were going to be fleeing the building all together. Martha's heart sank - she needed that income!

"Oh no problem at all, Alan. I understand. Times get tough and you just need a change."

He half-smiled. "Thank you, Martha. We'll be sure to put in a good word for you to any potential tenants we might meet."

"When are you moving out?"

"Before the end of the month, probably. Don't worry - we'll still pay one last bit of rent. It just depends on when we find a new place."

"Ah. Well...just let me know when you get ready to leave and I'll help you carry some stuff out." Her hip twinged, but she ruthlessly shoved the feeling down. A little bit of discomfort was no excuse to neglect neighbourly (and landlady) manners.

"Thanks."

Alan turned and headed back up the stairs and Martha started searching for the contact information she had used last time she had to advertise the flat. The pressure was on this time. It was imperative that she find a new lodger and fast. No longer could she rely on Thomas' paycheck to make ends meet. This was her only source of income now so she had to be proactive.

* * *

Maybe today she would hear from a prospective tenant. Martha wrapped a dressing gown around herself and shuffled sleepily into the bathroom to wash up and get ready for the day, firmly closing the window which was leaving in a draft. She knew that Baker Street was a prime spot (and she felt that she had set a fairly reasonable price) so hopefully she wouldn't have to wait much longer to find someone to rent. The Doughteys were moving out on Friday. Time was running out.

Still - life wasn't terrible. There was a roof over her head and food in her fridge and (Martha noticed as she passed through the sitting room to the kitchen) Sherlock Holmes was curled up sound asleep on her sofa. Hang on...what on earth?

Martha popped back into the room and took a second look at the plush sofa whose upholstery was, after three years of hard use, beginning to look a bit shabby in places. There lay her boy Sherlock all huddled down into his coat - long limbs pulled up against a chill and dark lashes laying starkly against too-pale cheeks. _He must be running low on cash again,_ Martha thought to herself and resisted the urge to push up a sleeve and check for track marks. While Sherlock may tolerate (and occasionally welcome) her fussing she had no illusions about how he would react to such an invasion of privacy...

She stood there silently, breakfast momentarily forgotten as she studied the face of this young genius she had come to love so dearly. With his curly locks and porcelain skin Sherlock looked like an angel while asleep...and Martha cracked a small smile. _Those horns will grow back as soon as he opens his eyes._ _Still - better get some food made up. Silly boy really looks like he could use it just now. I do hope he hasn't been kicked out of his flat again._

With that on her mind, Martha resumed her trek to the kitchen and started raiding the fridge. She had planned to simply get by on cereal this morning - but that just wouldn't do now that Sherlock was in the house. Not that he was a particularly picky person (though he did have some rather odd tastes) but while he was here the least she could do would be to get some good home cooking into him as clearly he never got it anywhere else.

She was partway through frying up a couple of eggs to help the half-package of bacon to stretch a bit further when a sleepy (and grumpy) growl sounded from the sitting room and Sherlock Holmes emerged at last...looking like a dishevelled poodle. The cherubic effigy of yore was gone, replaced with a mop of bird's nest curls and a face marred with the imprint of a cushion.

"Morning, dear!" Martha said, cracking an egg into the frying pan and fishing a rogue piece of shell back out of the white. "How did you sleep?"

"Fine." Sherlock's voice was rather raspy and his tone was short.

Martha wasn't deterred. "Hmmm. Glad to hear it. Why don't you go wash your face and then I'll serve us up some breakfast."

There was another growl (which quickly turned into a groan) as Sherlock scrubbed a thin hand over his face, stretching and cracking each vertebrae back into alignment. As he did so his dark coat fell aside to reveal his customary jeans and dress-shirt...a shirt that had originally been a version of 'cream' but was now blotchy with large, ominous brown stains. Stains that looked just like...

"SHERLOCK!" Martha half-screamed, horrified. "Is that _blood_?"

Sherlock paused, mid-stretch, and blinked at her in confusion. "Wha?" He said, still half-asleep, glancing down at himself. "Oh. That. Yeah it is."

Her mind was racing. Was he hurt? Was he ill? Was that why he had slipped into her house like that? Did she have to wrestle him into the A&E? Was there enough paracetamol to ward off infection? Did he already have an infection? What was going on? "That's a lot of blood, Sherlock. Are you all right?"

"'m fine. It's not even mine." He yawned and picked at the doubtlessly stiff fabric irritably. "Can I - ?"

"Yes, yes. Go throw it into the washer and then have a shower. Breakfast can wait." Martha watched him stumble down the hallway with one hand still clenched over her heart. That boy! He would be the death of her!

* * *

"So - how did you manage to end up looking like an extra from _The Walking Dead_?" Martha asked Sherlock when there was a pause in his inhaling of breakfast.

He tugged at the collar of Thomas' spare shirt (the thoughtless idiot had left most of his clothing behind whenever he left for America...Martha was only happy he hadn't sent her the replacement bill) and swigged down some milk. "There was a case where we surprised a suspect in the act. I'd been chasing him for days and then the Yarders had to blunder in and mess the whole thing up. He was so startled that he let the murder weapon slip and his latest victim sent out a rather impressive fountain of blood. Unfortunately I was caught in the line of fire." There was a grimace. "I liked that shirt too."

"Well maybe I can bleach the stains out." Martha said. "If you think you can stand Thomas' for a few hours. I apologise for the feel of the fabric. That was his 'at home repairs' shirt so it's not particularly good quality...but I thought it would probably fit you better than some of the more recent stuff."

"It's fine, Mrs. Hudson." It swallowed him.

"So this case," Martha felt that she would regret asking this - but she had to make some sort of conversation and it had been too dull lately in her life to use that as a template, "sounds like quite the sensational one. What happened?"

Sherlock was mopping the bacon grease from his plate with a slice of bread. _Disgusting!_ "Budding serial killer. He was still trying to figure out his method and ritual...sloppy work, it was child's play to establish a pattern. He didn't spread the killings out enough; there were at least two in one night...one of which was caught on security tapes. Idiot!"

"I dare say."

"I spent most of my day tracking him down, as Scotland Yard has so much red tape put in place to obstruct competence the Apocalypse will come before they get off their arses and actually do something, and at last found where he was finishing off his sixth victim just in time for the Yard to come clumping in and generally muck about causing problems." Sherlock sniffed. "But it was a rather dull case, anyway. It took a long time but only because the culprit was so stupid and clumsy with his work. I let the Yarders haul him away for questioning (they didn't need me...he'll crack within five minutes) and that was that."

"So you crashed on my sofa."

He looked suddenly a bit uncertain. "I was...tired and my flat is quite a good walk from the crime scene. It seemed logical to come here as Baker Street was only about twenty minutes from where I was at the time. But if I misjudged - "

"Oh shut up." Martha said, lightly tweaking his ear. "I wasn't scolding you, Sherlock. It was nice to find someone pleasant in my flat for a change. Don't ever apologise for coming here - even if I'm out, my sofa is always yours if you need it."

"Thanks?" Sherlock looked pleased, even if he clearly didn't exactly know what to do with that declaration. Martha smiled.

"Just finish your breakfast and then you can do the washing up while I tackle those stains on your shirt."


	25. Tenant Troubles

.

* * *

"I think I've managed to get most of the blood out." Martha poked her head back into the kitchen and grinned as Sherlock dropped a plate back into the soapy water with a flop, stifling a squawk as the water spattered him. "But I don't want to run it through the dryer until I'm sure - sets the stain, you see. So I'm afraid you're stuck here with me until we can drip-dry it."

Sherlock shrugged, wiping a blob of suds from his chin. "I can certainly think of worse fates."

And that was about as close to a comforting compliment Sherlock Holmes could manage. Martha took a dishcloth and started drying. There was no need to make small-talk with Sherlock. Just having him standing there in the room, humming a classical aria half-under his breath as he did the washing-up was enough to pervade the flat with a feeling of warm contentment.

A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Hudson, a-are you in?" That was Felicia's voice...as always perfecting the perfect line between timid and impatient. Poor girl was so insecure! If only she could learn to keep her chin up a bit more maybe more people could see the good parts of her and then like her better.

"Well hello, Felicia!" Martha said, opening the door with a smile and wiping her hands on the dish towel. "What can I do for you?"

"Dad just sent me down to...to drop off, um, th-the plates we've acc-accuml-"

"Accumulated?" Sherlock finished for her and she nodded frantically, eyes glued to his. Martha had to stifle a most improper giggle. Absence makes the heart fonder, they do say, and clearly time had not cooled the fires of passion for Felicia...but neither had it kindled any in Sherlock. Poor girl!

"Thank you." She said, wondering if she would have to wave a hand in front of Felicia's face to stop the girl gaping like a landed fish. "I didn't realise there was this many."

"I'm certain you have plied them with hoards of sugary baked goods and trifles over the years." Sherlock rumbled, hands in pockets and leaning back against the sofa. Felicia gulped.

Martha shot him a disapproving look. He was doing this on purpose, wasn't he! Every single time he met with her he immediately started to preen...neck arching like a proud racehorse as he spoke with her or brooded just in the shadows. If Martha didn't know better she would say that he...he was experimenting on Felicia and her emotions. That narcissistic little prick - he was gathering data!

"So, Felicia. How is the packing going? Do you need help with anything?"

"Uh..." Was that the poor girl's default statement?

"Felicia?"

"S-sorry?" She pulled her eyes away from Sherlock with great difficulty, looking rather dazed. "I, um, that is...we just have a few book boxes left, that's all."

Perfect. "Well that sounds like they'd be pretty heavy."

"Just bulky." The eyes slid back over to Sherlock who smiled tightly in a way that made him look rather like a charming shark. "We're...um...we're fine."

"Are you sure? Putting something out-of-place can be real hell." She tapped her hip for emphasis. Felicia took no notice, she didn't even blink. Sherlock was staring back at her, no doubt deducing what brand of product she had put in her hair that morning, and looking every inch the tall, dark stranger Felicia so clearly thought he was. "Felicia?"

"I, uh." Poor girl. She really was out of it, wasn't she?

"Do you need any help?" Suddenly the light-bulb went on over Sherlock's head and he began making desperate _"NO!" _gestures to Martha over the top of Felicia's near-comatose head. Martha ignored him. "I'm certain my Sherlock would be more than willing to help you out. Is the truck here again?" She waited a moment, then - for the third time that day - repeated, "Felicia?"

Felicia jumped like she had been shocked. "I think we'd be..we'd be fine."

"Oh no, not at all. I'm sure it would be no trouble for my Sherlock to give you a hand."

By this point Sherlock had had enough. "Much as I appreciate you farming out my services, Mrs. Hudson, I feel that I should really go check and see if my shirt is dry yet." He twitched his fingers at the buttons of Thomas' loan and Felicia visibly swallowed. "Then I need to be off. I had an experiment concerning tooth enamel ready to start when I got home and I really should go work on it before the carbonic acid solution eats the rest of the way through its jar. I'll let you know the results when I see you next week."

Felicia made an odd noise - a squeak that was rather like a mouse being trodden on - and jolted out of her trance, surging forward and burying her face in Sherlock's breastbone as she embraced him tightly. Once again, Martha had to stifle a laugh as Sherlock's eyes bugged and his arms flailed as he tried to extricate him from this unexpected (and doubtlessly unwanted) display of affection. Serves him right for preying upon the feelings of others like that! The boy looked like a scorched cat...

Sherlock struggled for a moment before he finally placed his hands gingerly on the girl's shoulders and gave her a timid squeeze back. That seemed to wake Felicia from whatever madness she had fallen into for instantly she released her grip on his middle and stepped back, blushing red as a tomato. "Bye, S-Sherlock." She mumbled, then promptly turned and fled from the flat.

"Nice girl, that Felicia." Martha said to Sherlock who was brushing off his clothes and looking rather violated. "You really shouldn't have done that to her."

"Humph!" His dignity spoiled for the day by the impromptu atmosphere of sentiment, Sherlock stalked over to the armchair and picked up a magazine to hide behind. Martha went back to the kitchen with a shake of her head. So it was going to be the sulks, was it? Honestly - out of all the boys in London she _had _to pick the one with a toddleresque emotional complex, didn't she?

* * *

Tenants came and went from 221B (though not from 221C, much to Martha's chagrin...she blamed the steadily worsening damp that necessitated her removing all of the furnishings) but no one seemed to stay for long, despite the prime location. They left for a variety of reasons. It was either the price (the newly-wed naive uni students) or the stairs (the elderly woman and her boyfriend) or, on one memorable occasion, because Sherlock deduced that they were a band of international smugglers hiding from the law (Martha kissed him on the cheek and cooked up his favourite meal while the coppers sorted out _that _lot).

It was frustrating to have such a constant stream of irregular traffic through the house, though at least the flat was in enough demand that the rent still kept her fed and warm. She had to scrimp and pinch in places...but Martha felt that she could live with counting her pennies and buying second-hand clothing if it meant being her own woman.

Sherlock was dropping in with more regularity now. He would pop in for tea at least once every two weeks and occasionally would employ the use of Martha's sofa for the night. The cases with Scotland Yard were piling up. Mostly cold cases or files, as he griped to her one day. They wouldn't let him on the crime scenes unless he beat them to it or slipped in - but occasionally he would send in tips (anonymous, of course) from various payphones. Martha smiled, patted his hand, and said she _'was happy he was having fun and surely they would let him into a proper scene soon...'_

Then at last she found a tenant who seemed like he would be a stayer. Oscar Dorian was his name, poor bloke, and he was an aspiring actor (Well what else _could _he be with a name like that?) who had too much money from his parents and too few jobs to occupy the time that he seemed to prefer filling with parties and womanising. Still - as long as he paid the rent on time and didn't bother any of the neighbours, Martha wasn't about to complain.

Indeed the only worry she seemed to have was Sherlock, who was once again looking worn-down and ill. He really would be the death of her one day...did he give no thought to how the way he abused himself might affect other people? In fact, if Martha didn't know better she would say that this sudden influx of cases was Sherlock's downfall. She didn't want to suspect that he might be using drugs again (he certainly had exhibited no signs beyond his usual run-down appearance) but maybe it was just the stress of life getting to him.

Her feelings were ones of amazement then when one day not long before Christmas Sherlock nearly bounced into her flat after a rather long absence and loudly proclaimed, "I just thought you might want to know, Mrs. Hudson. I'm clean!"

"I daresay you are." She had replied absently, absorbed as she was with a stack of Christmas cards to be signed. "I take it your water wasn't shut off this month, then?"

He looked a trifle disappointed. "No...no. I am _clean_." He emphasised this past point by rolling up his sleeve and thrusting a pale, unmarked arm under her nose. "Haven't touched a syringe in over a month." He was puffing up with pride and Martha couldn't help but return his grin.

So he had finally shaken the habit. This was wonderful! She had been suspicious for a while now that his words after his return from brother-enforced rehab about 'being back in control' might not have had the meaning she had originally tacked to them. If she knew Sherlock (and of course she did) he probably had literally meant that he had his 'recreational' habit back under control. It was a shame - but addicts (no matter what they were addicted to) could never fully fix the problem until they admitted there was one...and Sherlock had done everything in his power to refuse making that admittance. But now...now she could only thank God and pull her boy into a quick hug. "Good for you, Sherlock, I'm _so _proud!"

He went pink as a strawberry and ducked his head, tentatively hugging her back before pulling back and preening a bit. "DI Lestrade wouldn't let me on crime scenes until I could prove to him that I was clean. So I threw out all of my paraphernalia and found a good place to detox. I thought about what you said before, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade might have one thing right...the drugs are a liability that I can't afford to be using. I refuse to be subject to my transport's cravings!"


	26. Girl's Night In

.

* * *

_"Life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating."_ O. Henry, The Gift of the Magi

And shouldn't that just be the motto for her life? Martha sat aside the daily quote inspirational book and dusted her lap off with a sigh. Things had been fairly quiet recently. Oscar was still living upstairs and had thankfully _not _turned out to be a Jack-The-Ripper rip-off in disguise. Indeed the worst thing Sherlock had deduced about the foppish young man was that he had a rather embarrassing affliction on his derrière...one that Sherlock had mercifully NOT taken the opportunity of the jokes that practically wrote themselves. (Apparently he felt that puns concerning 'boiling' tea water were beneath his dignity or some such notion...Martha had no such scruples and enjoyed a good laugh behind the closed door of her flat, mouth stuffed with a flannel to muffle her guffaws).

She didn't know _why _Oscar's sudden and rather shocking bemoan had struck her as so funny (aside from the fact that it was rather bizarre) but it had certainly provided plenty of amusement during the particularly lonesome evenings when Sherlock was off dashing about solving crimes and the telly was showing only reruns that should have long since died and been shelved for good. But as hilarious as Oscar's predicament was...and how fortuitous, as it meant the traffic of young females and the noise from upstairs was somewhat lessened as he healed...Martha was infinitely grateful that Sherlock had held his tongue. Goodness only knows what the no-brain-to-mouth filter boy might have said! He really had no scruples or tact sometimes (most of the time) and Martha _really _didn't want to lose Oscar as a tenant. As rich, spoiled boys went he wasn't a bad soul; and she needed the money. Now if only she could find someone to rent out 221C...

The phone rang and Martha stifled a groan. Oh please _don't _tell her that Sherlock needed bailed out again! He had been doing so well! Wouldn't his consultant status with the Yard protect him from any petty arrests like that? Oh God...he had done something stupid, hadn't he?_  
_

"Hello?"

"Hi, Aunt Martha!" Meggie piped happily from the other end of the phone line. "Guess what!"

Oh thank heaven - nothing dire had happened. "I can't guess. What?"

"Well, Mum finally gave in and said that we could rent the new film for tonight - you know; that one with dragons and vikings that we've been seeing commercials for _FOREVER?_ And we're ordering pizza and Dad said he's picking up some soda and crisps for us on the way home..."

"That sounds like it'll be fun!"

Meggie giggled. "But that's not the best bit." She sounded excited and a bit anxious. "I talked to Mum and she said that since Dad, Tommy, and Keith are going on a retreat this week-end I could invite you over and we could have a girl's night in!" Then in an undertone she said, "D'you think I asked all right, Mum?"

Oh Meggie...just at that golden age between childhood and teenager - the age when young folk start to mature and branch out with their interests, but have yet to reach the 'awkward' age where they scorn all interaction with their elder relations (parents included). "That sounds lovely, Meggie." Martha said, a smile breaking out over her face. "Pizza and telly? What time d'you want me to come over?"

"Um...hang on."

There was a bit of panicked undertone-hissing again, presumably Meggie relating the question to her mother, before the sound of the phone changing hands came through and Kathy's voice said, "Half-past five should be about right, Martha, if that works for you. Steve and the others are leaving around four...but Meggie's still got a bit of a cough so she's not going. If you come at five-thirty or so that should give us plenty of time to get them off and then get everything tidied up from the pre-trip packing frenzy."

"Sounds good. What's this retreat they're going on, then?"

"It's a father-kids bonding time. They'll do team building exercises and eat all kinds of junk food and possibly play Twister during the nights that I _know _they'll be staying up entirely too late." Kathy snickered. "Not that I'm planning on doing anything particularly different...minus the Twister, though. I don't have the flexibility that I once did."

"Nor I." Martha said, rubbing her hip absently. "What's this movie that's got Meggie all excited? Should I bring a blanket to hide under?"

"Nah. It's some kid's flick from America...goofy title. It should be a comedy."

Perfect. She was in need of a few good laughs just now. A cheerful heart is good medicine, as the Good Book says, and Martha found that - though it was sometimes a struggle - she certainly felt better when she made a point of keeping as cheerful an outlook as she could. "Sounds lovely. What's it called?"

"How To Train Your Dragon." The trademark smirk could be heard in Kathy's voice. "Sounds funny, eh?"

"It sure does." Martha seemed to remember maybe seeing something about that somewhere…but she really couldn't be bothered to remember where.

"Of course whenever Steve and the others get home I'm going to have to sit through it again." Kathy was saying. "If Meggie likes it (and it has dragons, so she definitely will) then she'll go rave about it to Tommy and Blake and then they'll clamour until we watch it again. You know how kids are about things they really like."

"Indeed I do. Mine is obsessed with chemistry and crime scenes – the bloodier the better."

"_Yours_? Martha – is there something you're not telling me? Some big life event that I missed?"

Whoops. Oh dear. "Haven't I told you about my Sherlock?"

"No, no." Kathy was switching into 'gossipy younger sister' mode now. "Tell me about this 'Sherlock'. Is he nice?"

"Well…sort of." How to explain the conflicting bundle of emotions and personality quirks that was her brilliant, silly boy? "His heart is in the right place, I think, but he has a total lack of brain-to-mouth filter and doesn't even notice half the time."

"Hmmm. How'd you meet him?"

Now to give the edited version of the best thing to come out of her marriage to Thomas. "Well, it was back in my librarian days and he was checking out a few books on chemistry..."


	27. How To Train Your Sherlock

.

* * *

"...and he's been coming 'round for tea and telly now and then ever since." Martha said, bringing her tale to a close and mentally breathing a sigh of relief that she hadn't let any of the more...unpleasant details from the past decade slip. It wasn't that she was afraid of Kathy's judgement (well, okay, maybe she was a little) but it was her cross to bear and there was little point in burdening anyone with the information now that Thomas was gone - particularly on a day that was supposed to be all about kid-y comedy and take-away pizza. "I always make sure he gets something to eat before he leaves my house - especially towards the end of the month when I know he's saving for the rent and starts scrimping in areas that he really shouldn't."

"This Sherlock sounds like an odd sort." Kathy said in response. "Did he _really _keep a human nose on his coffee table for experiments?"

"He said he did, and I've certainly never known him to lie." No indeed. If anything, Sherlock was brutally honest and blunt to the point of rudeness.

"But Martha, let's be serious about this whole thing." Kathy sounded hesitent about whatever she was trying to say and Martha sighed.

"What is it?"

"I don't mean to be a spoilsport." Kathy said. "And please don't take this the wrong way - but are you sure Sherlock is all you think he is?"

What was that supposed to mean? "Just speak clearly, Kathy - I promise not to be upset."

"What I mean is, are you sure that Sherlock is really as needy as he's leading you to believe? Have you ever seen his flat or the copper he claims he works for?"

"With. Sherlock was very adamant about that. He works _with_ the police - not _for_ the police."

"Well whatever he claims he does, are you certain that he's not exaggerating things just to take advantage of your hospitality?"

Martha rolled her eyes. She knew Kathy's concern was well-meant, but she also knew that she wasn't mistaken about Sherlock's character. Still - this was what she got for censoring her story. Time to put Kathy's mind to ease. "I'm not blind, Kathy. Sherlock checks out. Several cases that he's described to me have turned up on the news...solved exactly the way he said they would be, thanks to a DI Lestrade and an 'anonymous' caller. And didn't I tell you that he got rid of those dreadful smugglers who tried to rent from me?"

"No, no. I never did hear what all went on with that."

"My Sherlock deduced just what those scummy creeps were doing with _my _upstairs and sent for the coppers to clear out the mess of drugs and other stolen goods. He also made _very _certain that his colleagues knew that I had nothing to do with the whole operation."

"That was good of him." Kathy smiled, voice sounding warm. "So the Scotland Yard stuff does check out...but what about all of this 'sleeping on your sofa' stuff? You say he gets kicked out of his flat all the time and is short on food because he doesn't have the money for it, but he works with the police. Surely that must pay well!"

"He doesn't accept money for it, the daft sod." Martha said fondly. "He's still trying to build up a reputation with them and, well, he's only willing to work on the 'interesting' cases. I told you he was a genius who suffers from chronic boredom? Well apparently solving crimes is the best way he's found to cure that boredom...and the more complicated and strange the better. (Honestly - the stories he's told...gives me the shivers, some of them!) But he doesn't want to be under the payroll or employment of Scotland Yard in any way because then they can tell him the sort of cases he can and cannot take a look at."

"So he's an arrogant sod, then?"

Ha! "You don't know the half of it. And his brother is even worse!"

"His brother?"

Martha glanced at the clock. Time to go and remind Oscar about paying the rent for this month...hopefully he was fully dressed and sober. "I'll tell you about the time he kidnapped me tonight, Kathy. I'm afraid I really must go now. Talk later!"

"Bye, Martha. We'll be watching for you."

* * *

Martha sniffed and wiped her eyes surreptitiously with her sleeve. "I thought you said this was going to be a comedy." She said to her sister who was currently nursing her own tears with a can of Root Beer. "A comedy!"

"I thought (sniff) I thought it would be." Kathy's eyes were looking suspiciously wet as she watched the credits roll across the screen.

Meggie was yawning from the armchair and took no notice of the emotional breakdown from her aunt and mother who had commandeered the sofa.

"Oh Hiccup...hand me a tissue, would you?" At this rate her sleeve was going to be a soaked and sodden mess. Martha took the tissue from Kathy and attempted to blow her nose discreetly while her sister roused Meggie and sent her off to bed.

"Blimey - I haven't cried that hard at a movie since Steve convinced me to watch Third Star with him." Kathy flopped down next to Martha again and grabbed a few consolatory pretzels. "Who knew an animated kids' film could get we two old fogies sobbing into our snack foods?"

"God! You're going to set me off again!"

Kathy snuffled and bit into her pretzel. "Then let's talk about something else before you flood the place." She said, passing her sister another tissue. "How about you tell me more about this young genius you're fostering and his mysterious, kidnapper brother?"

"Of course. It is a rather funny story, now that I look back on it..."

* * *

"...and so I told him that he could jolly well take his money and shove it up his arse (though I'm not certain it could fit around the stick) and he had his henchmen drop me off back at Baker Street." Martha said, smiling at the memory of Mycroft Holmes' smarmy manner and brolly fetish. "I think he was half-pleased that I didn't accept the bribe."

"What a strange way to look after your little brother!" Kathy giggled, sucking the salt off of another pretzel. "He hacked the CCTV cameras? Creepy!"

"It certainly was."

"Well I'm making sure that I dress _well _away from any windows tonight! No James Bond villain wannabe is going to get a free glimpse at me."

"Eugh!" Martha wrinkled her nose. "A bit too far there, sis."

"Sorry, sorry. So what does Thomas make of this Sherlock bloke?"

Oh God. An innocent enough question that just sucked the fun out of the conversation. How _dare _that cheating tosser continue to affect her life even from across the pond? "Well, he didn't really say much." No, but what he had said was hurtful and scarring. "I think he doesn't really care much either way."

"Martha?" Kathy abandoned her pretzels and suddenly became serious. "Look at me...I'm not joking just now. Are things all right with you and Thomas?"

"Why ever would you ask that?" Martha said, with a catch in her voice that could possibly be passed off as incredulous laughter.

"Because every time I bring him up you change the subject. I'm sick of you being so evasive around me. You're my big sister and we're best friends...or at least we were. Now sometimes it feels like I hardly know you. And it hurts."

"Kathy, I - I'm sorry." What was she to say? "Sometimes there just isn't a whole lot to tell."

"But that's just the thing - there _is _stuff. I had to find out about those smugglers through a footnote on the evening news, and only today did you mention the boy that you've apparently known for over ten years now and practically adopted. I don't like this secretiveness you've been putting on. It makes me feel like there's something big you're hiding from me. And I never see Thomas about...I don't think you've mentioned him in months. What's going on?"

What to say, what to say? "I haven't mentioned him because he hasn't been around...Thomas, I mean. He's gone to America - Florida, to be precise - for work purposes. He was transferred (we don't know for how long) but I decided to stay back here in England and keep an eye on Baker Street. Palm trees and bikinis aren't really my thing, you know."

"Yeah, but. Things are okay...they're really okay?"

"I'm fine, Kathy. Really. Though, I may yawn myself to death if I don't head for home pretty soon."

"Think you'll find a certain 'consulting detective' on your couch tonight?"

"Oh God, I hope not." Martha stretched slightly, working out the kinks in her frame and rubbing at her hip. "I love the boy dearly and all, but I fear I wouldn't have patience to deal with a bloodstained shirt or raging cold tonight."

"And yet you still would try." Kathy smiled up at her sister. "Don't think I've forgotten your penchant for taking in baby birds and stray kittens, even after all these years. You never could just walk by an injured butterfly when we were girls, as I recall."

"Yes but Sherlock is definitely no baby bird or injured butterfly."

"The jury's still out on the 'kitten' comparison, though." Martha's little sister chuckled slightly. "From what you've said he definitely sounds like a stray in need of some TLC and a few lessons in common courtesy."

"How to train your Sherlock, eh?"

"Precisely!"


	28. But They're Just For My Hip!

.

* * *

"Martha, hello! How are you doing today?" Marie Turner beamed over the foil-covered top of a loaded casserole dish.

"Fine, fine." Martha let her next-door neighbour in, fumbling in the sofa cushions for the telly remote. "Please excuse the mess…it's been one of those mornings where I can't seem to get anything done the whole way."

"Oh I understand completely!" Marie said, stepping around a half-full clothes basket. "Some days are just like that; I've had a few of 'em recently myself." She lifted up one corner of the foil with her one free finger and Martha caught a whiff of mocha. "I had a few brownies left over from the batch I sent to the AA bake sale yesterday and I was just wondering if you might like some. I seem to recall that you enjoy a bit of coffee and chocolate."

"I do indeed."

Martha accepted the proffered dish from Marie and took it into the kitchen, hurriedly chucking her breakfast dishes into the dish-pan and squirting in some soap to make a disguising lather. Her neighbour followed, still chattering on about everything from the weather _("Ghastly, lately…can you believe the amount of rain we've been having?"_) to the latest celebrity gossip _("And they say that she released pictures of the two of them to his _wife _when he refused to give her the pay she wanted! That's what he gets for employing a woman like that…"_) and finally to their mutual 'employment' _("Could you tell Mr. Dorian to keep his telly turned down a bit? I've had complaints from mine that he can't sleep – and a banker always needs plenty of rest, I'm sure. I hate to trouble you, but I don't want to lose him."_).

"So, what has that handsome young man been up to lately?"

What? "What?"

"Oh you know what I'm talking about, Martha. That tall, thin young thing with the swirly coat who pops up every other week or so right about tea time. I'm assuming he isn't your son...so a nephew?"

"Not at all." Martha said. "Tommy and Blake are my nephews - and regular good ones they are too. But Sherlock..." She trailed off and grasped for a way to explain their odd relationship to Marie. "I guess I would have to say that Sherlock is as about as close to having a son as I'll ever get."

"Thomas doesn't want children?"

Probably not. "To be quite honest we never really got around to discussing it." Martha said, getting out two cups. "Tea?"

"Please." Marie made herself comfortable at the table and set down her bulging purse.

"But even if we wanted to have kids, well, I'm a bit past my prime and Thomas is no spring chicken."

Marie nodded in sympathetic agreement. "But surely if you two wanted a brood there's plenty of homes around the country practically overflowing with little ones wanting adopted."

As if she'd ever inflict Thomas' no doubt skewed vision of 'fatherhood' on a defenceless child! "I've got Sherlock, Marie, and he's quite a handful as it is. Sometimes I don't know if he's the next Einstein or a crabby toddler, poor thing. I don't think his parents were particularly loving towards him, though I hope to high heaven that I'm wrong."

"Oh dear, poor lad!" Marie tutted, sipping at the cuppa Martha handed to her. "No wonder he's always looking so cagey! It's wonderful that you're being a mother to him, Martha. It'll do him good!"

"I do hope so."

"It will. You'll see." She reached into her bag and pulled out several rather sinister-looking paper satchels (the sort Martha imagined Sherlock might once have procured his poison of choice in) and a glossy catalogue. "And I have something that I think will do you good."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I remembered you saying to me about how your hip was really bothering you lately." Marie flipped to a page in the catalogue. "Now I don't know if it's a pulled tendon or (God forbid) the beginnings of arthritis or some such annoyance...but I figured I should do what I can to help and tell you about something that may work for you."

"What is it?" Martha looked forward with interest as Marie shoved the catalogue towards her.

"Richard's sister...you remember Richard, right?"

"Your tenant. The IT consultant."

"Right - that's him. His sister runs a little organic herb farm just outside of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania in the States and she sends him all sorts of natural healing information and news. Nice girl, that Becky, and she's taken to giving me advice about doing 'cleanses' and 'herbal remedies', most useful. Anyway, she swears by these soothers you can get from Baldwin's." Marie smiled at Martha. "I wasn't sure about them at first...but they quickly won me over." She displayed the 'miracle workers' for Martha to see. "These have pretty much nixed the pain from my bunions."

"_Really_?" Martha examined the herbal soothers thoughtfully. She was ready to try just about anything to help the hip that Thomas must have injured more than she had initially thought (it couldn't be arthritis already...she wasn't _that _old) but she didn't like the idea of some doctor drugging her up with goodness knows what in an effort to help the temperamental pain. Never again would she laugh when some old-timer claimed they could predict the weather in their joints because it was true, and painful. "I'll give them a try, Marie." She said, accepting the bags gratefully. "Thank you so much for thinking of me."

"My pleasure. What are friends and neighbours for, anyway?"

* * *

It was raining..._again._ She had known it was going to rain (damn hip) but hadn't remembered to use one of Marie's soothers (damn her) and so Martha could only sit on the hot water bottle and irritably flick through the telly channels. There was little else to do. All of her housework was done to a painful degree of completion and the weather was preventing any kind of excursion from seeming pleasurable.

Kathy, Steve, and their kids were on holiday (lucky sods) and Marie was visiting her daughter and waiting for the birth of her first grandchild. Life...how dull it all seemed at times!

Her phone buzzed and she groped for it with a sigh.

_mrs hudsson_

_i made A mistake_

_can I come over? _

The text was signed ' - SH ' but bore none of his usual trademark Oxford-essay style. Something was wrong.

Without even thinking about it, Martha took her phone and carefully pecked out a reply to Sherlock, trying not to let her imagination run rampent as to what might be going on. No point in getting herself all worked up when her boy needed her.

_Of course u can!_

_come at once_

Oh dear - what had happened now?


	29. A Rocket Tearing Itself To Pieces

.

* * *

Oh gods...where was that boy? Martha glanced at the clock for the fifth time in half an hour, ears straining for the slightest sound from the bathroom window. The minutes ticked by, each one a drop of icy fear falling onto her heart and freezing her bones. What had happened to Sherlock? Was he even going to make it to her flat? Judging by the state of his text he must be in pretty bad shape, so should she phone the police? How would she get in contact with his brother if need be? Would mouthing a few choice words at the nearest CCTV camera do the trick? And would Mycroft even respond? She had certainly never heard anything more of the elder Holmes boy during the years she had known Sherlock (aside from Sherlock mentioning that his brother had locked him away in a rehab centre) and she doubted if he even really kept as close of tabs on Sherlock as he seemed to make an attempt at appearing as though he did. He had asked her to spy for him, after all.

Two hours since Sherlock's text and he still hadn't arrived. Martha had taken to alternately pacing the floor of her flat, shredding tissues as she wrung them in trembling hands, and manically scrubbing everything to within an inch of its life (the only activity that could even momentarily hold the attention of her distraught mind), checking the bathroom every few minutes. What if he was bleeding out somewhere?

Martha's hand twitched for the phone (fully intending to call 999) only to recall that, even if Sherlock was dying in an alleyway somewhere, she wouldn't have the foggiest idea where to direct the paramedics to. She blinked away hot tears of frustration. No point in moaning and moping - that wouldn't help anyone and would just leave her face stiff and itchy.

She sat down at the kitchen table and began to make an attempt at taking care of some bills (noting with some annoyance that she had to make a telly payment again) but giving up in frustration as the dotted lines and check boxes all blurred together. Where was Sherlock? At this point it had almost _better _be something serious because if he had caused her all of this stress and worrying for nothing she would turn him over her knee herself. Hadn't his mother ever taught him about manners?

Oh but that didn't matter just so long as he was safe. Martha glanced at the clock again. Two hours and forty-five minutes. What was taking so long?

* * *

_Whose stupid idea was this anyway? She's just going to yell at you again._

**It was my idea, and therefore not stupid. And so what if she does? I need help.**

_So help yourself. You don't need to humiliate yourself like this. What's she going to do anyway; sit there and watch you scratch yourself to death?_

**I need to be supervised and I can't go to Lestrade. He'd never forgive me.**

_She's never going to forgive you. You really messed up this time, Sherlock. Why not try some covert damage control instead._

**Shut up! I told myself I wouldn't do this again.**

_You need it, you know you do._

**No I don't.**

_It's going to be absolutely hell...are you really certain you want to put dear, old Mrs. Hudson through all of that?_

**No...**

_Well then - you're still a few blocks from her flat. Just turn around and go home. You controlled it for years, why start irrationally panicking now?_

**Because it's getting bad again and I promised...**

_Precisely. And what do you think she's going to do when she sees that you've broken that promise? You'll be out on your ringing ear in half a minute, just you wait and see._

**No...no she wouldn't do that.**

_Oh really? Do you honestly think that she's going to want someone as pathetic as you vomiting anywhere near her flat?_

**I'm not pathetic!**

_Yes you are. Look at you - wobbly and ill; you can barely walk straight._

**So? That's why I'm going to get help.**

_And you're a whiner too...so glad to see such a firm, strong character trait in an aspiring detective. I'm certain that will solve the cases right away, being a weak baby that runs to Mummy as soon as it becomes scared._

**And I'm not scared.**

_Just keep trying to tell yourself that, Sherlock. In your heart of hearts you know better. Just turn around._

**No.**

_You're asking for heartache, as the common folk would say. Do you really want to see the inevitable rejection in her eyes when she sees just how far you have slumped?_

**She won't. She promised **

_To let you sleep on her sofa...not quite the same as pledging to nurse you through sickness and health._

**Shut up.**

_Do you really want me to do that? To leave you to your fate? To not stop you from being intolerably stupid._

**I said SHUT UP!**

_Fine, fine. She's going to be so disappointed..._

The young man slumped against the alley wall and buried his face against his pulled-up knees. He did not cry or moan in agony, but his shoulders shook as he huddled down miserably. He made no sound as his mind whirred and stabbed at him relentlessly. Why wouldn't the cravings and whisperings stop? Was he going mad? Why couldn't everything just _slow down__? _What was he to do if that nagging voice was correct and he was turned away? On a normal day such things would scarcely be a blimp on the radar of life. But just now...as the wind curled even under his long coat to cut through his clothing and bite at his skin and the stone of the street and wall pressed cold against him...Sherlock Holmes felt that a rejection like that would be the last straw. He couldn't go on like this and Mrs. Hudson at Baker Street was currently his only hope.


	30. Together

.

* * *

Four hours since Sherlock's text. She really was going to have to try the CCTV trick, wasn't she? Martha gnawed on a fingernail uneasily (Margaret, her best friend, had always chided her about the habit which manifested only under severe stress) and wondered just how much longer she could afford to wait.

Thankfully just as she was about to throw on her coat and go in search of a camera, Martha heard the blessed scraping sound from the bathroom that meant Sherlock was getting the window open.

"My heart!" Martha murmured, going to the hallway with every intention of ascertaining whether he was hurt and firmly boxing his ears should he be intact. "That boy is going to be the death of me!"

A thud and muffled groan from the bathroom cut short her visions of kicking his scrawny arse to Cambridge and back as her heart began once again to pound in her throat as she realised he must be in a rather bad way if it was taking this long for him to emerge.

"Sherlock?" She said as she eased the bathroom door open and found him still sprawled on the floor, attempting to disentangle his gangly limbs from his coat. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" With painful difficulty he got to a sitting position, half-hunkering over and wrapping his arms about himself in a protective self-embrace. He _must _be hurting or ill somehow if he was showing her that vulnerable side of himself! "Sherlock?"

"Mrs. Hudson." He muttered, righting himself at last and clambering to his feet. It wasn't the clumsiness of the movements that had Martha concerned (although that was unusual) but the fact that he seemed as close to the verge of tears as Martha could ever imagine Sherlock Holmes getting. He really looked pathetic standing there, all huddled up in his coat and looking as though he was expecting a blow. She felt almost guilty about threatening him with a slap, even in her mind (_almost _being the key word...he had frightened her terribly) and sighed.

"I'm going to ask you again, Sherlock, and I expect an answer. What's wrong?"

"Do you really have to ask?" He raised his head warily.

As soon as their eyes met, ice flooded Martha's veins. _No!_ Her mind screamed. _Not this again - he was doing so well! _"What did you take, Sherlock?"

He flinched, somehow making himself look small and scared. "I wasn't...I mean...it was for a case."

"For a case." She repeated, dumbstruck. And here she had hoped that the police work would keep him _away _from the needle. What the HELL was that DI he worked with thinking?

"We were tracking a gang." Sherlock said, speaking at about twice the usual speed and half the fluency. "That is - I was tracking them and Lestrade was tracking me. He didn't believe me that it was Sanders who was the murderer...wouldn't mobilise his men so I had to go in alone. Needed more concrete evidence or even maybe the man himself. He was guilty as sin - even an idiot should have been able to tell from the wrinkles on his collar - but they could only hold him so long due to 'legal reasons'..." His weak sneer told Martha exactly what he thought about _that _excuse "...so the Yard foolishly let him go. Naturally he scampered off at once and I followed, hoping the rat would return to the nest."

"And did he?" Martha was concerned by the way Sherlock was swaying, but as she didn't know how he would react if she moved to support him (fight or flight) she stayed still and kept a wary eye out.

Sherlock himself let out a rough, bitter laugh. "He led me into a den, all right - a damn drug den! It was awful, all of those people and the hollow, staring eyes. And the _smell..._oh GOD!" He raked a shaky hand across his face in remembrance and Martha's eyes fastened on the rather extreme leanness of it with concern, wondering how long it had been since he last ate and if he even still realised that she was there. He was certainly saying things that Martha felt certain he ordinarily would _never _express aloud to anyone. "It's so hard...I thought I could resist it, really I did, and I _tried._"

"I know you did, Sherlock. Just tell me what happened."

"It was easy to ignore everything while I was working to catch Sanders. He was moderately clever and led me on a merry dance through the block of flats. I...I need things like that to focus my mind on, you know?" He peeped at her nervously and Martha gave him a sympathetic look. That seemed to be some encouragement and he went on with the story that Martha felt glad he was willing to open up about. "But eventually I cornered Sanders in the basement and the Yarders showed up to clean up the mess (apparently _Mycroft _gave them a kick in the collective arse and told them how to track me) during the confusion Sanders must have slipped something into my pocket. I don't know why - maybe to frame me?"

"I don't know either, dear."

He shuddered. "Doesn't matter anyway. What matters is that the stuff was in my pocket and...oh God...I _tried _to just throw it away, I really did." Sherlock was almost pleading her to believe and understand him - a fact that frightened Martha more than his current state of health - and, when she went too long without replying, he went limp and slumped down on the edge of the tub in defeat. "I finally caved about three weeks ago." He said, speaking softly as if to himself. "I just couldn't take it any more!"

"So you've been shooting up ever since?"

"Yes." That curly head was hanging now, the consulting detective looking totally depleted and ashamed.

"Are you on a high right now?"

This time he was nearly whispering - voice so soft that Martha had to strain to hear it. "Yes." This admission was immediately followed by what sounded like a rant of self-castigation in an even further undertone. "_Stupid, stupid...shouldn't have come...knew this was going to happen..."_

"Okay, Sherlock, turn out your pockets." Martha cut over this frankly disturbing and heart-breaking speech with her hands planted firmly on her hips. He jumped, blinking up at her in stupefied confusion...but she ruthlessly pushed down her feelings of sorrow at his excellent impersonation of that stray, oft-kicked kitten Kathy had compared him to not so long ago and focused on the task at hand; getting him clean again. "You heard me - turn out your pockets...unless you want me to do it for you."

"But...but you mean I can stay?"

Poor thing really was dumbfounded. "Sherlock - if I didn't want you to stay then don't you think I would say so? I am a bit insulted that you think so little of me anyway...even if I wasn't so fond of you as I am I would _never _let you go back out looking the way you do just now. As it stands, I am here to help. So you turn out your pockets and then get yourself a shower (no, don't look at me like that, you're filthy and you should know the drill by now) while I call Richard next door and see about borrowing Marie's laptop. We'll get through this together, Sherlock. You'll see."


	31. Perusing The Source Of All Knowledge

.

* * *

"Are you hungry, Sherlock?"

He shook his head wearily and sank into the armchair, drawing his knees up to his chest and clasping his hands around them.

"Thirsty?"

"Not right now." Sherlock rested his chin on his knees and sighed. "You got everything out of my coat, then?"

"There was nothing there, Sherlock." Martha said, looking sharply at the boy. "You must have disposed of or used it all."

"No!" Sherlock sat up abruptly, speaking with the force that had so been lacking from this visit...though he was clearly having a raging internal battle with himself as he struggled to get the words out properly. "No...you didn't. There's a little - a little secret pocket on the l-left side inside."

Martha's eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. "Is that the only place?"

Sherlock's closed his eyes and nodded. "It is, I swear. Just go and get rid of it before I start coming down and lose hold of my sense again."

"How do I do that?" She was favoured with a disgusted look; the kind Sherlock perfected into an art form - the kind that had a way of making you feel as though you had just dribbled on your shirt front. Martha checked for offending drips (just in case) and said. "Well, come now, how am I supposed to know?"

"You watch _telly, _do you not?" He almost sneered. "Why don't you try what they always romanticise and flush it?"

"Don't you take that tone with me, young man." Martha said, getting to her feet and going to check his coat. "That was a perfectly reasonable question."

"And I gave you a perfectly reasonable response." Sherlock said, jaw set.

"Watch it. Given the fact that it took you so long and so many attempts before to get clean," She ignored his comment of 'Right, yeah, thanks for the reminder...' with practised patience, "and the very telling evidence that you have come to me for help with this whole endeavour I can deduce that this is not going to be easy." There was a derisive snort from the pyjama'd detective and Martha fought down a stab of annoyance with some more of that long-earned patience. Her getting angry would only exacerbate things. "We have to do this together, Sherlock. I'm willing to help you in any way I am capable of...but we need to lay down some ground rules _now _before things get real tough."

He rolled his eyes and slumped down in the chair. "Oh what now?" Unfortunately his attempt at being superior and off-putting was completely undermined by his rather diminished and pathetic appearance.

"You are currently staying in _my _house, sitting in _my _armchair, wearing clothes that _I _bought for you, and about to take advantage of _my _time and patience in order to attempt a cold turkey detox. Now I am more than happy to help you through this and I'm certainly not about to throw you out on your ear; but you have to reciprocate favours...starting with a bit of common courtesy. Do you understand me?"

A long silence while Sherlock seethed and sulked stretched out (she really hoped that the withdrawal wasn't starting already) but at length he gave a jerky nod and mumbled something that might have been an apology. Mollified for the moment, Martha went to confiscate those drugs - pondering if maybe she could get a bit of food down his throat before they retired for the night and worrying about just what the next few days would have in store for the two of them.

* * *

There was a knock on the door and Martha hastily finished dumping the bag of accursed powder (and the solution from the syringe) into the toilet, flushing them away with a feeling of grim satisfaction and hoping that it would all go down properly. Then she pocketed the syringe itself, forming plans to smash it at the earliest possible opportunity...particularly with something resembling a hammer...and went to answer the door, hoping she didn't look as flustered as she felt. Sherlock hadn't moved from his place on the armchair and didn't even look up as she passed.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Richard smiled at her and held out a tote bag. "Here's Mrs. Turner's laptop. I called her as soon as you hung up and she said she'd be happy to loan it to you, just make sure you keep it plugged in as the battery is faulty and needing replacing."

"Thank you so much, Richard." Martha took the tote gratefully, making a mental note to do something super nice for her neighbours as soon as this mess was over with. "I really appreciate you running it over to me."

"No problem. It was my pleasure. Have a good night!"

Martha took the laptop in to where Sherlock was sitting and set it up on the coffee table.

"What are you doing?" He asked dully, observing her attempts at disentangling the cord.

"I am doing a bit of research." Martha said, plugging the device into the wall and sitting down on the sofa with it situated on her lap. "You came to me for help and I'm going to be damned if I don't do my best, but I confess I don't know nearly enough about this whole subject to consider myself properly qualified."

Sherlock snorted again, but Martha decided to ignore him. She punched in Marie's Internet passcode and started a search for 'cocaine withdrawal symptoms & treatment'.

* * *

_After taking cocaine on a regular basis, some users will become addicted. When the drug is discontinued immediately, the user will experience what has come to be known as a "crash" along with a number of other cocaine withdrawal symptoms, including paranoia, depression, exhaustion, anxiety, itching, mood swings, irritability, fatigue, insomnia, an intense craving for more cocaine, and in some cases nausea and vomiting. Some cocaine users also report having similar symptoms to schizophrenia patients and feel that their mind is lost. Some users also report formication: a feeling of a crawling sensation on the skin also known as "coke bugs". These symptoms can last for weeks or, in some cases, months. Even after most withdrawal symptoms dissipate most users feel the need to continue using the drug; this feeling can last for years and may peak during times of stress. About 30-40% of cocaine addicts will turn to other substances such as medication and alcohol after giving up cocaine. There are various medications on the market to ease cocaine withdrawal symptoms...*  
_

"Well that was certainly helpful." Martha said to herself half-sarcastically, prompting another scoffing noise from Sherlock.

"You could have just asked me, you know." He said, raising his face from where it had been pressed against his knees to look Martha in the eye. "I could have told you about the nausea and vomiting, about the days of feeling like utter shite, of the intolerable itching that never really goes away...always waiting to crop up and torture you, or how about - "

"Thank you, Sherlock, this is precisely why I _didn't _ask you." Martha gave him a pointed glare. "Do try not to think about it before you have to. And remember what I said about manners?"

He subsisted with a scowl that was immediately ruined by a jaw-breaker of a yawn. Martha was pleased that enough of his clearly posh upbringing had lingered to compel him to cover his mouth. Maybe the hope of somewhat taming this mad genius didn't mean she was as completely balmy as her increasingly old-lady wardrobe seemed to project. But then again...

"So are we going to just sit here all night, navel gazing?"

Then again he could be remarkably snarky and unpleasant even after she had warned him to mind his manners. His idea of civil was _worlds _away from, well, the world's and he seemed to genuinely not notice whenever he let loose with one of his more insensitive observations. Martha hoped that this most recent outburst of irritability was merely due to tiredness and not part of the symptoms checklist. She was not prepared to deal with that tonight, though if push came to shove of course she would rise to the occasion.

"Are you tired, Sherlock?" Another sleepy, sarcastic glare. "I'll take that as a yes, then. Look - I know that the next couple of days aren't going to be easy for either of us, so why don't you grab a blanket and have a little kip here on the sofa? I'll switch places with you."

For once Sherlock didn't protest his 'transport's' need for sleep (a fact that paid testament to how exhausted he was and how he was dreading the upcoming illness) and instantly shuffled off to procure a coverlet for himself. Martha shifted over to the armchair, laptop in hand, and settled down.

"Aren't you going to bed?" Sherlock asked, reappearing with his arms full of bedding.

Martha shook her head. "No. Not just yet, I'm not tired enough. Besides - I have research to do, remember? Let me be the hyperactive one for once. You just get some sleep...I promise not to drink your blood."

He rolled his eyes at the incredibly weak joke she had just cracked (in her defence it was pushing eleven) and started burrowing under the covers like a mole. He blinked once or twice, fighting sleep awkwardly, before giving up and sinking bonelessly into the cushions with an exhausted sigh.

"Good night, Sherlock." Martha said quietly. "Rest well, we're both going to need it."

* * *

_* - _from good ol' **Wikipedia**...somehow I see Martha as the sort of person to consult that particular resource first thing.


	32. Choices Have Consequences

.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _So - quick reader poll because the holidays/prime writing times are coming to an end - would you all prefer me to keep doing these short (1,000 - 2,000 words) chapters and update fairly regularly or should I shoot for longer instalments with less frequency? Let me know in a PM or in your review. Thanks! _

* * *

Martha finally went to bed around twelve-thirty. She needed her rest nearly as much as Sherlock needed his - especially since she was undoubtedly going to have to play nursemaid to a certain genius. Unfortunately, it couldn't have been more than three hours later when she was awoken to the sound of Sherlock coughing. Hacking actually, almost_...retching._ Oh God!

She flung herself out of bed, fumbling for a dressing gown to cover her nightie, and heading down the hallway to find her guest. "Sherlock?" She called softly. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Obviously not." A deep, quavery voice sneered from the bathroom. "I am currently kneeling on the cold, hard floor expelling the contents of my stomach into your toilet. But oh yes - I'm just fine and dandy!"

"Watch your tongue, young man." Martha shoved open the door and frowned down at him. Sherlock glared up at her from his place on the floor, wiping a bit of spittle from his chin. She crossed to the sink and filled a paper cup with some water. "Rinse and spit." She instructed, passing the drink to him and letting him take it with shaky hands. "There, better?" She asked, once he had followed her instructions.

"Marginally." He said, hauling himself to his feet with a groan. "Go back to bed. I'm tired."

Martha watched as he stumbled back out to his couch before she flushed the toilet (Hadn't been much in his stomach, had there?) and went back to bed herself, keeping a wary ear out for any further signs of illness.

Sure enough, maybe fifteen minutes later, he was back in the bathroom again for another session of puking. Martha sighed and scrubbed a hand over her face, getting up again and going to him. "Sherlock?"

"Oh - please go away, Mrs. Hudson." He groaned, resting his forehead against the porcelain. Martha wrinkled her nose - that couldn't be even _remotely _sanitary, no matter how clean she tried to keep her house.

"What do you need? I have some ginger ale in the pantry if you think it might help settle your - "

"I said go away!" Sherlock snarled. "Just get back into bed, go to sleep, and leave me the hell alone. I am fine!" And he doubled over with another round of dry, hacking heaves that left him sweating and shaking. "Nnnn..." He moaned, sliding down wearily to collapse in a boneless, trembling heap against the bathtub.

Martha flushed the toilet again and handed him another cup of water. "Right now, Sherlock," she said firmly - determined to be clinical about the whole thing, "You look about as far from fine as I've ever seen you. So don't give me any of that crap about not needing any help." She held up one finger warningly as he made as if to protest. "I mean it. You're soaked with sweat and paler than the linoleum you're sitting on, don't deny it. Now I'm going to go get you a can of ginger beer and I want you to make an effort at drinking it. At least that'll give you something in your stomach _to _throw up."

He opened his mouth, doubtlessly to make some sort of dismissive remark, but swiftly regretted it as he lurched forward and spat out some more bile.

"See what I mean?" Martha said, offering the water again. "You're going to hurt like hell tomorrow if you keep this up. Now wash your face and get out of those pyjamas, preferably without upchucking again. I'm going to go get you some fresh clothes and that drink."

With that she left him, going to the pantry and digging out the ginger beer and a straw. If only Sherlock would just swallow that damn pride of his for once and let her help him! She had no doubt that eventually he would have little choice (if this was just the beginning, things were _bound _to be miserable later on) but she wished that it wouldn't come to that. She didn't want to watch him suffer. It wasn't like he had exactly done it to himself this time. Addiction was terrible, according to all her research, and nigh on impossible to completely shake. Sherlock hadn't asked for that crook to lead him into a den of temptation and slip him a bag of drugs. Maybe he should have held out a bit better and just thrown the stuff away, maybe he could have gone for help a little bit sooner before he got so hopelessly saturated with the chemical or physically worn down, but he had tried. Even though he ultimately failed to win the battle (little wonder when he tried to fight it alone) he had still made the effort and, for Sherlock, that was a step in the right direction.

The sound of swearing came from the bathroom (curses choked out in-between more heaves) and Martha winced as she dug out some of Thomas' clothes from their storage box and went to hand them over to Sherlock.

She found him slumped against the sink, ribs heaving as he panted for breath. "Give them here and get out." He said, not even opening his eyes.

"You don't look so good. Maybe I should - "

"GET OUT!" He nearly screamed, glaring up at her and looking quite dangerous with his red-rimmed eyes and extreme pallor.

Martha dropped the pyjamas on the floor and fled, leaving him to regain his dignity in privacy but determined to go back and investigate if he didn't emerge within ten minutes.

* * *

"Oh God." Sherlock groaned, doubling over the bowl and gagging.

Mercifully (or unmercifully, depending on how one looked at it) he didn't throw up again and Martha looked pointedly at his half-finished can of ginger beer (the fifth since this whole ordeal started). "Just sip some more, Sherlock. It will help."

"What would help would be if you would let me have a hit" He mumbled, looking absolutely exhausted. "This was a stupid idea."

"Hmmm. Not as stupid as taking that first injection was." Martha said, speaking more calmly than she felt.

Sherlock glared at her and bent over the bowl again, primarily to hide his face from her. He looked miserable; sweaty, pale, and much too thin as he sat there huddled up and shivering. Martha felt a slight twinge at her heart (something that she seemed to feel every time Sherlock was in trouble) as she looked at him. They were nearly 58 hours into Sherlock's withdrawal and right into the heart of the mood-swings, fatigue, and insomnia.

She wished that she had something to give him; some sort of medicine or therapy that could take away the illness and incessant itching ('coke bugs' Wikipedia had called it) that plagued his every waking moment. He had fought her physically for a while, during the worst of the paranoia and cravings (at least Martha _hoped _that that had been the worst of it...Sherlock was being very tight-lipped about the whole affair), but that had subsided as his strength was leached away by nausea and lack of sleep. Oh he hadn't hurt her. Martha was very doubtful that Sherlock was capable of hurting her, the most he had done was struggle against her touch for a while, but it was still very worrisome and so, _so _hard to see him in so much agony all because of a simple little white powder. Damn drugs!


	33. Rest For The Weary At Last

.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _Well the general consensus seems to be shorter updates that are more frequent...and I'm completely cool with that so that's how I'm going to do things. This story is already mapped out and outlined, so it's just a matter of actually fleshing that framework out. I'm looking forward to this!_

* * *

Quiet at last! Martha collapsed at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and rubbed her eyes wearily. Three days. It had been three days since Sherlock had stumbled into her house, babbling about making a mistake. Since then it had been one long, tumultuous ride of angst and illness as Sherlock fought against the withdrawal symptoms.

He had weathered the depression and the worst of the fatigue in stoic silence, determined to tough it out. Martha had tried to help in any way she could, though he had fought her tooth and nail until sheer exhaustion forced him to lower his shields. This had easily been one of the most tortuous periods of time Martha had ever spent. It physically hurt her sometimes to see her boy in so much pain; to hear his dry, hacking coughs; or to watch him scratch and pace about like a caged animal.

At least now he was asleep (curled up and shivering in _her _bed, as it was closer to the bathroom than the sofa) and finally getting the rest that his overtaxed system so craved.

Martha herself half-drifted off, hot tea warming her insides and the late afternoon sun kissing her skin. She was _so _tired (she didn't even want to imagine what Sherlock must be feeling) and she just needed a little rest. Sherlock was a handful whenever ill under the best of circumstances. But now, fighting against cravings and paranoia, he went from manic energy to deep depression - all of which manifested with a deep-seeded grumpiness that strengthened his already prickly personality against any sort of 'smothering'. If only he would just let her help! Things might be easier if he wasn't fighting her and the drug.

At length, she roused herself and finished her drink, dropping the empty mug off in the sink and heading down the hallway to check on her troublesome patient.

Sherlock was still asleep, mercifully enough, though he looked somewhat uneasy and restless - brow furrowed and body trembling with the incessant chills that he just couldn't seem to shake. At least he wasn't looking to throw up just now (Martha really, _really_ hoped that that part of the withdrawal was over so maybe he could keep something other than tea down) and some of the more psychological symptoms seemed to be giving him a respite. That was good - they both needed it.

* * *

"Well good morning, sleepyhead." Martha said as Sherlock emerged, tousled and yawning, from the bedroom on the fourth day. "D'you think you're up to some soup for breakfast?"

He scratched at one arm and fidgeted. "I guess I can try."

Well that was a start, at least. "Sounds good, then. You go and get yourself washed up and then we can eat in front of the telly or something." He needed distractions; something for that mind to focus on outside of the prickling craving...and if that meant ridiculing crap telly then that meant ridiculing crap telly. She could hardly engineer a nice murder for him to solve, now could she?

Sherlock took a short shower and emerged, hair still dripping, dressed in the newly-cleaned pyjamas Martha had purchased specifically for him (she had refused to give back his other clothes until he recovered...sweat-soaked jeans felt like hell) and flopping down on the sofa with a groan.

"How are you feeling?"

Martha was favoured with a scathing look. "Oh just wonderful, thank you." Sherlock said, though there was no _real _bite to his words. "I have a headache and it feels like I slept in an ant trail...but I'm doing splendid."

She caught hold of his hand where it scratched against his arm. "Now stop that - you're going to draw blood. I know it itches, but it'll feel a lot worse whenever I have to bandage it up."

"Whatever." Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled his knees up to his chest.

"None of that!" Martha scolded, swiping the telly remote and pondering which station would be the most diverting for this ancy genius. "You haven't had anything of substance for days now, young man, and you are going to eat some of this soup."

"I'll probably just puke it up anyway." He sounded sulky and Martha mentally prepared herself for another round of The Battle.

"Oh I don't know about that." She said briskly, whisking the magazines off of the coffee table and putting down some coasters. "And even if you do, you promised me that you would at least try so I'm afraid you're stuck."

There was a bit of unintelligible grumbling about that, but he shifted position into a more amenable stance and looked at her expectantly. "Fine. Bring on my doom." This was said in a voice appropriate for one being led to the block and Martha rolled her eyes. Her cooking wasn't _that _bad! In fact, thank you very much, it was rather good...and Sherlock was in no position to insult it, given the way he mowed it down in the past. Sod him!

"Here you are!" She said, being deliberately cheerful as she handed over the bowl of chicken soup (Still works wonders!) to her patient who sniffed snobbishly before taking a begrudging sip.

After that it was a bit like feeding frenzy time at the fish hatchery. Martha left him alone to down his soup, choosing instead to indulge in the nature special about the behaviour patterns of country grey squirrels. Sherlock always did comply better with things for his own good whenever he wasn't under scrutiny. And at least he was eating now. He had had rest (though clearly not enough, going by the circles under his eyes) and now he had food. Just one step at a time, that's all they could do.

* * *

_The hedgehog, or Erinaceus europaeus, is the only British mammal to have spines. They are primarily nocturnal, sleeping for large portions of the daylight under cover of shrubs, rocks, or your porch. Like most other members of the shrew family, hedgehogs..._

"Hedgehogs are prickly." Sherlock said suddenly, cutting through the overly-chipper voice of the narrator with his sleepy monotone. "We had a hedgehog family in our garden when I was four."

As she looked at his drowsy, limp form Martha was suddenly assailed by visions of a scrawny, fae-like little child with an untameable mop of ebony curls and a pair of aquamarine, inquisitive eyes that were windows into a quicksilver mind. She smiled softly, watching Sherlock as he fell into a doze and catching him as he slid over against her shoulder - in his utter exhaustion seeking her soft warmth as comfort. Gently Martha guided him down until she positioned his head in her lap. By now he was almost completely comatose - under the spell of a deep, healing sleep as the last vestiges of the nausea and fever seemed to abate at last. Maybe that food had done him more good than she thought.

Tenderly threading her fingers through those silky curls, Martha leaned back and watched the documentary on hedgehogs, loath to disturb the sleeping soldier on her lap. Sherlock's breaths were deep and peaceful at last and though his brow was still somewhat creased (no doubt because of that headache he had mentioned) he was no longer thrashing about in his sleep. Oh her boy; her dear, ridiculous, brilliant boy! This respite was a Godsend - perhaps he had turned the corner at last!


	34. The Great Impersonation

.

* * *

"_God, _I need a case!" Sherlock tore at his hair in agitation as he rocked back and forth in the armchair.

"Just settle down and have your tea."

"I need something stronger than tea!" He snarled, glaring at her over the top of his bony knees. "Either that or something to focus my mind on beyond the banalities of British pop-culture." There was a rather violent gesture made in the direction of the telly.

"Why don't you read something, dear?" Martha offered him her well-worn copy of _Murder is Easy _and was legitimately surprised when it didn't ignite, what with the force of the scowl shot at it.

"'Whodunnit' was the spinster - solved it without going past the cover. I need something interesting!" He gripped the crook of his left arm with a white-knuckled hand and resumed rocking back and forth.

Martha frowned at this. "Then what do you want me to do?"

"I don't know! Since you fine, upstanding citizens of the British Commonwealth claim to object to the more severe crimes against their fellow human beings, I'm afraid there isn't anything you can do." He actually sounded woeful as he sat there all huddled up, glaring at everything and everyone in the room out of sheer habit. Gone was the sleepy child of yesterday who had snuggled up against her in a rare show of weakness and slept so peacefully with his head trustingly placed in her lap. Sherlock had morphed from angelic waif to petulant teenager overnight and Martha resigned herself to the fact that maybe the mood swings were't quite over after all.

Of course, his emotions never had been very stable ('normal' was simply not a term one could apply to any aspect of Sherlock Holmes) so maybe her fears were unfounded. Still, Martha always found that it was best to air on the side of pessimistic (realistic) caution. Then, should things go better than planned, one could be pleasantly surprised. But until that happened, until fate decided to play nicely with them, she had to find something to occupy Sherlock...left to stagnate and self-implode, that genius mind would turn from blessing to curse and drive him right back into the trap of self-medication again.

* * *

Sherlock had dropped off into a light sleep some three hours later and Martha was doing his laundry up whenever the inspiration hit her. It would be the perfect solution, if only she could pull it off!

Martha had been putting his street clothes (the ratty, stained ones he had arrived in) and all of the nightclothes and bedding that had accumulated between the two of them over the past few days into the wash whenever she suddenly remembered that she should probably empty his pockets before subjecting the contents therein to her washing machine cycles. Gingerly going through his jeans and shirt (thankfully that dramatic coat hadn't gone through the same abuse as his clothing and, doubtlessly in his delirium, he had neglected to put on a jacket) Martha retrieved a small, collapsible magnifier and Sherlock's mobile which was blinking with three new messages.

Glancing at Sherlock's slumbering form, Martha turned off the sound and opened the messages.

_Sherlock where are you?_

_Its been nearly a month._

It was from a contact labelled 'Lestrade'...a name that vaguely rang a bell in Martha's mind as the detective Sherlock said he was working with.

_Sherlock, come on. Answer!_

_Youre not at your flat,_

_do I need to call some_

_of the boys?_

Well at least he was showing some concern for her boy after he got him led into a drug den. Maybe this detective wasn't all bad after all. In fact...maybe he could prove to be useful in helping Sherlock get back on his feet.

Martha closed the message and scrolled through the phone's menu until she found Sherlock's contact list (she never had really got the hang of these things). She found it telling and rather sad that there were only four names contain therein; his brother Mycroft's, her own, someone called Raz's discontinued number (A recent boyfriend, perhaps?), and that of a certain Detective Inspector.

Her fingers hovered over this last name as the idea took shame and form in her imagination. Sherlock's mind needed stimulation and his preferred puzzle was solving cases like Poirot. Wasn't there such a thing as 'cold' cases mentioned in every crime drama to clutter up the telly schedule? Sherlock had mentioned before that he was working on cases but not allowed on crime scenes...which meant that he had been solving cold cases for the police, it had to. Maybe if she could text this Lestrade bloke and convince him to bring some case files for her restless genius here it would help occupy Sherlock's ever-racing mind. The only question was - how could she do it without completely freaking the man out about a civilian who had somehow got hold of Sherlock's phone and asking for doubtlessly confidential files? On the telly there was always miles of red tape to go through, so how could she get this done quickly?

* * *

_Lestrade. BORED! - SH_

Martha pressed the 'send' button and chewed a hangnail nervously as she leaned back against the shuddering wash machine. She really, _really _hoped that this would work. She had certainly known Sherlock long enough to be able to mimic his style (and could certainly pull the 'snobbish tone' card if she got into real hot water) but as to whether or not she could convince that DI into sending over some nice cases for Sherlock to sink his teeth into was another matter. And would he even answer her text?

That question was answered mere seconds later whenever the screen lit up with an incoming text which Martha promptly opened, feeling only slightly guilty for this invasion of privacy and deception. The things she did for Sherlock's mental health!

_Sherlock? Thank GOD!_

Martha was about to peck out a response when a second and decidedly more articulate text came through.

_WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?!_

_IVE BEEN TRYING TO GET IN CONTACT FOR ALMOST A MONTH!_

Oh dear. How to answer that without getting Sherlock into more trouble than he clearly was already? (It was nice to see that this DI Lestrade seemed to be genuinely concerned, though.) Martha put her tongue between her teeth and went to work.

_Been busy. Experiments. - SH_

Once again she sat back and waited for the reply. Sure enough...

_You mean to tell me that I prepared a bloody_

_missing persons report because you were_

_doing some DAMN EXPERIMENT?_

Oh dear, oh dear. Clearly time for some damage control!

_Been a bit under the weather. - SH_

Was that admission too candid to be from Sherlock? A bit late to be worrying about it, Martha supposed, considering that she had already sent it. But still, it wouldn't do to mess things up now.

_Sherlock, is that supposed to be code for something?_

Damn. It would seem that DI Lestrade knew about Sherlock's little habit (Of _course _he did...that's why he wouldn't let the silly boy on the crime scenes before!) and so it was definitely time for major damage control.

_Other than being insufferably BORED,_

_I'm sure I don't know what you mean. - SH_

She waited a moment, feeling rather proud of her snarkiness, before 'firing' off another text - being extra certain to use perfect grammar and punctuation.

_Anything interesting going on? - SH_

Lestrade's answer was punctual and not very encouraging.

_Nothing you would consider interesting._

_Why? Whats going on?_

Martha sucked her teeth for a moment, contemplating. She had to do this next part very, very carefully if she wanted it to work.

_Nothing is happening and that is the problem._

_I'm bored, haven't you been listening?_

_Are there any case files I could go through? - SH_

There. That sounded Sherlock-y enough to pass! Now if only Lestrade would fall for it and deliver...

_Fine, I think I can smuggle a few out._

_Just dont do anything stupid before I get there, ok?_

Again with the very real concern. Thank God...maybe she wasn't the only one looking out for the best interests of that brilliant boy!

_I won't. - SH_

"Mrs Hudson?" The real Sherlock sounded a bit groggy as he called out her name. "Have you seen my phone?"

Oh crap! Martha sighed and headed back out into the sitting room where she found a rumbled, sleepy Sherlock rumpling the knots back into his hair and yawning. "Here you go." She said, handing the phone over to his waiting fingers. "It was in the pocket of your jeans. You _really _need to invest in getting yourself some new duds."

He shrugged, eyes glued on the screen as his thin fingers flew. "Don't really have the funding right now, Mrs. Hudson." He said absently, the glow of the screen shining ethereal and green on his face - highlighting every hollow. "There's only so much and I have to pay rent and fund my experiments."

"Why don't you make Mycroft - "

Her suggestion was cut off by a sneer. "As if I'd go to that fat git for help." Sherlock looked as though the very idea of crawling to his brother was bringing back his nausea full-force. "I'd sooner starve in the gutter than put myself under his pudgy thumb!"

Martha frowned. The Mycroft she remembered hadn't been all _that _heavy. Still...people change and it had been a few years. Sherlock had undoubtedly seen his brother since Martha had (though not by choice, she was sure) and so she wasn't really in a position to nag him about those disparaging comments concerning his brother's physique. That wasn't a discussion she wanted to open anyway.

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock said, frowning at the screen.

"Yes, dear?"

"I just got a text from Lestrade asking me where I am. He has some...cold case files for me?"

Martha glanced up from _Murder is Easy_ and met Sherlock's bewildered gaze. "Oh. Yes that's right, dear. I know that you're getting terribly bored, so when I found your phone I took the liberty of texting him about maybe finding something for you to work on."

"Under my name?"

"Well...I didn't think they'd take too kindly to the word of a civilian using Sherlock Holmes' number."

He snorted. "Mrs. Hudson, you've been watching too much Colimbo...or whatever that American crap with the trench-coated cigar man is called."

"Columbo, Sherlock. His name is Columbo." Martha put in a bookmarker and set her trusty Agatha Christie down. "So...are you going to text that Lestrade bloke back or not?"

Sherlock's hands wavered for a moment. "What am I to tell him?"

"My address, obviously. You want those cold cases, don't you?"

"Yeah, but..."

"But what?"

He shifted slightly in the chair. "But if I tell him that I'm staying here instead of at my flat he'll want to know why and when he finds out that I relapsed he won't let me back on the crime scenes and he'll take all of the files away and probably make the entire Met change their passwords so that it'll be months before I can hack them again and - "

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Martha held up a hand to cut off the sudden overflow of speech. "Who the hell is going to tell him that you relapsed? I'm bloody not!"

"But I...you're not?"

Dear dear - there he went with the electrocuted owl look again. Poor boy really needs to stop that before he damages his eyelids! "Of course I'm not, Sherlock. Honestly, I should be insulted that you think I would. I asked him to bring some cases over here to _help_ you beat this bloody addiction of yours...not to rat you out so that you have nothing to keep you clean."

"But I look terrible! You said so yourself this morning before you practically flung me into the shower!"

Martha shrugged. "So? He thinks you've been under the weather - of course you're going to look a bit pale and peaky if you've been laid up with the flu! I'll just do my 'dotty old doting aunty' spiel that seems to put salesmen, coppers, and your bloody brother off my scent and he'll drop off the cases and be on his way. Nothing to worry about, you'll see."

That got a smile out of him and a rather rusty chuckle. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He said and immediately sent a text back to the Detective Inspector.


	35. Silver Fox

.

* * *

Sherlock was sitting by the front window, eyes practically glued to the street as he wriggled with impatient expectation. Clearly he was dying to sink his teeth into the offerings Detective Inspector Lestrade was bringing and Martha would not have been a bit surprised if he pressed his nose to the glass and started drooling.

Even if he was exchanging one addiction for another (like that one medical-looking website had said) Martha felt that as long as solving murders kept him alive and reasonably healthy she wasn't about to quibble. He had better not chase another suspect into a drug den, though. If he did she would slap him herself!

"How long does it take to hop in your car and drive from Scotland Yard to Baker Street!" Sherlock half-whined, fidgeting and scratching at one arm.

Martha frowned. "Stop doing that, Sherlock. You're going to draw blood."

"I can't help it!" He bared his teeth and scratched harder, clearly in a contrary mood. "I need some brainwork - I needed it, like, yesterday - and if that moron, Lestrade, doesn't - "

The doorbell rang.

"At last!" Sherlock cried, leaping to his feet and practically skipping out an ecstatic jig, foul humour quickly receding. "What took so long?"

He would have ran straight out of the flat and to the front door, had Martha not snagged the sleeve of his pyjamas and pulled him back. "Now hold it right there!" She said sternly, ignoring his splutterings. "You're supposed to be recovering from the mother of all flu epidemics. That means no skipping about like a mad hare."

"But - "

"No buts about it! I am about to lie to a police officer for you, so the least you can do is help support my story. Now sit down on that sofa with a blanket and start looking like you're a few sick steps back from the gates of death, got it?"

"Got it." He said, eyes wide in surprise. Martha gave him a hard look as she moved to answer the door and was pleased when he immediately scuttled to the sofa and assumed the expression of one dining at the house of Hades. With an approving nod that was also a warning to 'stay put', Martha headed out to let the poor Detective Inspector (who was by now undoubtedly becoming impatient) in.

"I'm so sorry to keep you waiting!"

"Not a problem, Ms...?"

"_Mrs. _Hudson." Martha corrected, solely out of habit - but that was before she got a proper look at DI Lestrade. _Oh my! _Here was living proof that the term 'Silver Fox' was most decidedly _not _passée or no longer relevant. He was a sharp-dressed man of the law (even if he wasn't in uniform) and there was a gleam of courage and toughness in those sharp eyes. Just the sort of man Connie Prince said would look good in a dark, velvet jacket or out of..._no stop it, stop it, Martha! You're a married woman and a middle-aged one at that. Stop faffing about like a giggling schoolgirl!_ "Ahem. Do come in, Detective Inspector."

"Thank you."

She ushered the DI in, allowing herself only a wee bit of casual noticing from the corner of her eye. Thomas was across the pond engaged in his own orgies, no doubt, so she saw no harm in _looking..._particularly whenever there was something pleasant to see. Besides - it wasn't as if it would actually go anywhere.

"Hello, Lestrade." Sherlock quavered from the sofa, virtually invisible from amidst the nest of blankets he had cocooned around himself. There was sweat beading on his upper lip (it was rather too warm in the flat to be so wrapped up) but that only served to enhance his overall sickly appearance when added to the pale skin and woeful expression.

"Good God, Sherlock, you look awful!" Lestrade frowned worriedly at her boy, no doubt spotting the splotch of red on each cheekbone and mistaking it for the overheating of fever rather than blankets. "What did you catch?"

"I believe it may have been a particularly stubborn strain of influenza." Sherlock replied, throwing in a few pathetic sniffs for good measure. Martha hid a smile behind her hand.

"It must have been." The detective was still looking Sherlock up and down in concern, but Sherlock wasn't interested in exchanging sentiments. No sooner had Lestrade stepped into the room than Sherlock's gaze had honed in on the briefcase the copper was carrying. He sat there, doing his best to look pitiable and expectant at the same time...but eventually lost patience with Lestrade's scan.

"Well?" He said impatiently.

Lestrade pulled out of his examination to answer. "Well what?"

"Have you brought the files?"

"Yes I did. But I'm not so sure if this is a good idea, sunshine. Frankly - you sound like hell and look like you could use a few good meals and about a week of sleep."

_Couldn't we both? _Martha slipped into the kitchen to start up the kettle. She had a feeling that something would be needed to sooth frazzled nerves by the end of this endeavour. Sherlock was playing the laid-up invalid a bit _too _well at the moment. Didn't he realise his own strength? Probably. Sneaky thing was probably doing it on purpose...and now he was pouting at Lestrade's words.

"I am fine, Lestrade!" He said petulantly. "It was just a bit of flu - the only thing I'm suffering from just now is brainrot, brought on by the depressingly idiotic selection of media around here."

Martha supposed she should be insulted by that...but it was par for the course coming from Sherlock (particularly an irritated, ill Sherlock) so she paid it no mind. She could scold him about his manners later.

* * *

"...and then there's this one that kept a team of our finest puzzled for _months_." Lestrade said, handing over a particularly fat file folder to Sherlock who snatched it eagerly, not even bothering to make a show of disinterested dignity. "Do you think you can make any headway?"

For that the DI was favoured with a scathing look as Sherlock made it very clear just what he thought of _that _statement. Lestrade looked a bit taken back and spread the rest of the files neatly across the coffee table before he stood up and strode into the kitchen where Martha was making tea and attempting to look as though she hadn't been eavesdropping. (She certainly _hadn't _been checking out his person as he bent over the coffee table...oh no!) She gulped, shoving back those inappropriate thoughts viciously to the corner of her mind that still believed it was sixteen and locked them with a pinkie swear.

"Thank you for bringing over the files, Detective Inspector." She said, finding the words came out easier than she had anticipated. "He's been practically climbing the curtains these past couple of days...at least he would have been if he had had the energy." Remembering that Sherlock was supposed to be laid up in bed, Martha quickly amended her statement and chuckled nervously. "He's driven me nearly to homicide on more than one occasion."

"So he actually was sick, then?" Lestrade's brow was creased with worry. "Actually, properly sick?"

"Well aren't you are cheerful one!" Martha pulled out the tea bags and a box of Jammie Dodgers. "Yes he was sick as a dog, poor lamb," She ignored the indignant cough from the sitting room, "I'm just glad that he decided to crash here instead of at that ambiguous ruin that attempts to pass itself off as his flat."

"You do realise that I can hear you?"

They ignored the genius on the sofa, Lestrade nodding in agreement of her words. "I don't like the neighbourhood he's living in either. Too many temptations and dangers around...not to mention the filth."

"Can still hear you!"

Martha sighed, retrieving the sugar bowl. "I understand how you feel, Detective Inspector, but whenever Sherlock gets a notion in his head there is no swaying him. And he refuses to accept payment for his deductions or go to his bloated big brother for help."

"He has a brother?"

"Oh yes, dear! Haven't you met him yet? Rather generously-built young fellow with red hair?" From the sofa Sherlock coughed something that sounded distinctly like _"Fatcroft!"_...Martha ignored him once again. "Talks like a Bond villain and is fond of kidnapping people by hijacking London electronics?"

"Oh good Lord..._that's _Sherlock's _brother_?" Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face wearily. "I know him all right - better than I ever wanted to. He keeps abducting me and for 'questioning' every once and a while. I told him exactly where he could stick that brolly of his."

There was a snort from Sherlock and Martha smiled in approval. "Good for you." She exclaimed, picking up the tea tray while the detective carried the biscuits. "It's about time _somebody _said it!"


End file.
